J  ED/ " 

I*-3!  IT  If 

C  in!  11 L 

ILE1 


SATURDAY'S  CHILD 


•: 


<• 


SATURDAY'S 
CHILD 


BY 

KATHLEEN   NORRIS 

AUTHOR  OF 
MOTHER,  ETC. 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  BY 

F.  GRAHAM  COOTES 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET   &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1913  AND  1914 

BY  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 
(Good  Housekeeping  Magazine) 

Copyright,  1914 
BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian. 


To  C.  G.  N. 

How  shall  I  give  you  this,  who  long  have  known 
Your  gift  of  all  the  best  of  life  to  me  ? 
No  living  word  of  mine  could  ever  be 
Without  the  stirring  echo  of  your  own. 
Under  your  hand,  as  mine,  this  book  has  grown, 
And  you,  whose  faith  sets  all  my  musing  free, 
You,  whose  true  vision  helps  my  eyes  to  see, 
Know  that  these  pages  are  not  mine  alone. 

Not  mine  to  give,  not  yours,  the  happy  days, 
The  happy  talks,  the  hoping  and  the  fears 
That  made  this  story  of  a  happy  life. 
But,  in  dear  memory  of  your  words  of  praise, 
And  grateful  memory  of  four  busy  years, 
Accept  her  portion  of  it,  from  your  wife. 


"Friday's  child  is  loving  and  giving; 
But  Saturday's  child  must  work  for  her  living^' 


PART  ONE 

Poverty 


SATURDAY'S  CHILD 


CHAPTER  I 

NOT  the  place  in  which  to  look  for  the  Great  Ad- 
venture, the  dingy,  narrow  office  on  the  mezzanine 
floor  of  Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter's  great  wholesale 
drug  establishment,  in  San  Francisco  city,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  present  century.  Nothing  could  have 
seemed  more  monotonous,  more  grimy,  less  interesting, 
to  the  outsider's  eye  at  least,  than  life  as  it  presented 
itself  to  the  twelve  women  who  were  employed  in 
bookkeeping  there.  Yet,  being  young,  as  they  all  were, 
each  of  these  girls  was  an  adventuress,  in  a  quiet  way, 
and  each  one  dreamed  bright  dreams  in  the  dreary 
place,  and  waited,  as  youth  must  wait,  for  fortune,  or 
fame,  or  position,  love  or  power,  to  evolve  itself 
somehow  from  the  dulness  of  her  days,  and  give  her 
the  key  that  should  open — and  shut — the  doors  of 
Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter's  offices  to  her  forever. 

And,  while  they  waited,  working  over  the  unvaried, 
stupid  columns  of  the  company's  books,  they  talked, 
confided,  became  friends,  and  exchanged  shy  hints  of 
ambition.  The  ill-ventilated,  neglected  room  was  a 
little  world,  and  rarely,  in  a  larger  world,  do  women 
come  to  know  each  other  as  intimately  as  these  women 
did. 

Therefore,  on  a  certain  sober  September  morning, 
the  fact  that  Miss  Thornton,  familiarly  known  as 
"Thorny,"  was  out  of  temper,  speedily  became  known 
to  all  the  little  force.  Miss  Thornton  was  not  only 
the  oldest  clerk  there,  but  she  was  the  highest  paid, 
and  the  longest  in  the  company's  employ;  also  she  was 

1 


2  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

by  nature  a  leader,  and  generally  managed  to  impress 
her  associates  with  her  own  mood,  whatever  it  might 
be.  Various  uneasy  looks  were  sent  to-day  in  her 
direction,  and  by  eleven  o'clock  even  the  giggling  Kirk 
sisters,  who  were  newcomers,  were  imbued  with  a  sense 
of  something  wrong. 

Nobody  quite  liked  to  allude  to  the  subject,  or  ask 
a  direct  question.  Not  that  any  one  of  them  was  par- 
ticularly considerate  or  reserved  by  nature,  but  be- 
cause Miss  Thornton  was  known  to  be  extremely  un- 
pleasant when  she  had  any  grievance  against  one  of 
the  younger  clerks.  She  could  maintain  an  ugly  si- 
lence until  goaded  into  speech,  but,  once  launched,  few 
of  her  juniors  escaped  humiliation.  Ordinarily,  how- 
ever, Miss  Thornton  was  an  extremely  agreeable 
woman,  shrewd,  kindly,  sympathetic,  and  very  droll  in 
her  passing  comments  on  men  and  events.  She  was  in 
her  early  thirties,  handsome,  and  a  not  quite  natural 
blonde,  her  mouth  sophisticated,  her  eyes  set  in  circles 
of  a  leaden  pallor.  An  assertive,  masterful  little 
woman,  born  and  reared  in  decent  poverty,  still  Thorny 
claimed  descent  from  one  of  the  first  families  of  Mary- 
land, and  talked  a  good  deal  of  her  birth.  Her  leading 
characteristic  was  a  determination  never,  even  in  the 
slightest  particular,  to  allow  herself  to  be  imposed 
upon,  and  she  gloried  in  stories  of  her  own  success  in 
imposing  upon  other  people. 

Miss  Thornton's  desk  stood  at  the  inner  end  of  the 
long  room,  nearest  the  door  that  led  out  to  the  "deck," 
as  the  girls  called  the  mezzanine  floor  beyond,  and  so 
nearest  the  little  private  office  of  Mr.  George  Brauer, 
the  arrogant  young  German  who  was  the  superintend- 
ent of  the  Front  Office,  and  heartily  detested  by  every 
girl  therein. 

When  Miss  Thornton  wanted  to  be  particularly 
annoying  to  her  associates  she  would  remark  casually 
that  "she  and  Mr.  Brauer"  thought  this  or  that,  or 
that  "she  suggested,  and  Mr.  Brauer  quite  agreed"  as 
to  something  else.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  disliked 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  3 

him  as  much  as  they  did,  although  she,  and  any  and 
every  girl  there,  would  really  have  been  immensely 
pleased  and  flattered  by  his  admiration,  had  he  cared 
to  bestow  it.  But  George  Brauer's  sea-blue  eyes  never 
rested  for  a  second  upon  any  Front  Office  girl  with 
anything  but  annoyed  responsibility.  He  kept  his 
friendships  severely  remote  from  the  walls  of  Hunter, 
Baxter  &  Hunter,  and  was  suspected  of  social  ambi- 
tions, and  of  distinguished,  even  noble  connections  in 
the  Fatherland. 

This  morning  Miss  Thornton  and  Mr.  Brauer  had 
had  a  conference,  as  the  lady  called  it,  immediately 
after  his  arrival  at  nine  o'clock,  and  Miss  Murray, 
who  sat  next  to  Miss  Thornton,  suspected  that  it  had 
had  something  to  do  with  her  neighbor's  ill-temper. 
But  Miss  Thornton,  delicately  approached,  had  proved 
so  ungracious  and  so  uncommunicative,  that  Miss  Mur- 
ray had  retired  into  herself,  and  attacked  her  work 
with  unusual  briskness. 

Next  to  friendly,  insignificant  little  Miss  Murray 
was  Miss  Cottle,  a  large,  dark,  morose  girl,  with  un- 
tidy hair,  and  untidy  clothes,  and  a  bad  complexion. 
Miss  Cottle  was  unapproachable  and  insolent  in  her 
manner,  from  a  sense  of  superiority.  She  was  con- 
nected, she  stated  frequently,  with  one  of  the  wealthy 
families  of  the  city,  whose  old  clothes,  the  girls  sus- 
pected, she  frequently  wore.  On  Saturday,  a  half-day, 
upon  which  all  the  girls  wore  their  best  clothes  to  the 
office,  if  they  had  matinee  or  shopping  plans  for  the 
afternoon,  Miss  Cottle  often  appeared  with  her  frowsy 
hair  bunched  under  a  tawdry  velvet  hat,  covered  with 
once  exquisite  velvet  roses,  and  her  muscular  form  clad 
in  a  gown  that  had  cost  its  original  owner  more  than 
this  humble  relative  could  earn  in  a  year.  Miss  Cottle's 
gloves  were  always  expensive,  and  always  dirty,  and 
her  elaborate  silk  petticoats  were  of  soiled  pale  pinks 
and  blues. 

Miss  Cottle's  neighbor  was  Miss  Sherman,  a 
freckled,  red-headed,  pale  little  girl,  always  shabby 


4  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

and  pinched-looking,  eager,  silent,  and  hard-working. 
Miss  Sherman  gave  the  impression — or  would  have 
given  it  to  anyone  who  cared  to  study  her — of  having 
been  intimidated  and  underfed  from  birth.  She  had 
a  keen  sense  of  humor,  and,  when  Susan  Brown  "got 
started,"  as  Susan  Brown  occasionally  did,  Miss  Sher- 
man would  laugh  so  violently,  and  with  such  agonized 
attempts  at  suppression,  that  she  would  almost  strangle 
herself.  Nobody  guessed  that  she  adored  the  bril- 
liant Susan,  unless  Miss  Brown  herself  guessed  it.  The 
girls  only  knew  of  Miss  Sherman  that  she  was  the 
oldest  of  eight  brothers  and  sisters,  and  that  she  gave 
her  mother  all  her  money  every  Saturday  night. 

Miss  Elsie  Kirk  came  next,  in  the  line  of  girls  that 
faced  the  room,  and  Miss  Violet  Kirk  was  next  to  her 
sister.  The  Kirks  were  pretty,  light-headed  girls,  friv- 
olous, common  and  noisy.  They  had  a  comfortable 
home,  and  worked  only  because  they  rather  liked  the 
excitement  of  the  office,  and  liked  an  excuse  to  come 
downtown  every  day.  Elsie,  the  prettier  and  younger, 
was  often  "mean"  to  her  sister,  but  Violet  was  always 
good-natured,  and  used  to  smile  as  she  told  the  girls 
how  Elsie  captured  her — Violet's — admirers.  The 
Kirks'  conversation  was  all  of  "cases,"  "the  crowd," 
"the  times  of  their  lives,"  and  "new  crushes";  they 
never  pinned  on  their  audacious  hats  to  go  home  at 
night  without  speculating  as  to  possible  romantic  ad- 
ventures on  the  car,  on  the  street,  everywhere.  They 
were  not  quite  approved  by  the  rest  of  the  Front  Office 
staff;  their  color  was  not  all  natural,  their  clothes  were 
"fussy."  Both  wore  enormous  dry  "rats,"  that  showed 
through  the  thin  covering  of  outer  hair,  their  stock- 
ings were  quite  transparent,  and  bows  of  pink  and  lav- 
ender ribbon  were  visible  under  their  thin  shirt-waists. 
It  was  known  that  Elsie  had  been  "spoken  to" 
by  old  Mr.  Baxter,  on  the  subject  of  a  long,  loose  curl, 
which  had  appeared  one  morning,  dangling  over  her 
powdered  neck.  The  Kirks,  it  was  felt,  never  gave 
an  impression  of  freshness,  of  soapiness,  of  starched 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  5 

apparel,  and  Front  Office  had  a  high  standard  of  per- 
sonal cleanliness.  Miss  Sherman's  ears  glowed  coldly 
all  morning  long,  from  early  ablutions,  and  her  finger- 
tips were  always  icy,  and  Miss  Thornton  and  Susan 
Brown  liked  to  allude  casually  to  their  "cold  plunges" 
as  a  daily  occurrence — although  neither  one  ever  really 
took  a  cold  bath,  except,  perhaps,  for  a  few  days  in 
mid-summer.  But  all  of  cleanliness  is  neither  em- 
braced nor  denied  by  the  taking  of  cold  baths,  and  the 
Front  Office  girls,  hours  and  obligations  considered, 
had  nothing  on  this  score  of  which  to  be  ashamed. 
Manicuring  went  on  in  every  quiet  moment,  and  many 
of  the  girls  spent  twenty  minutes  daily,  or  twice  daily, 
in  the  careful  adjustment  of  large  sheets  of  paper  as 
cuffs,  to  protect  their  sleeves.  Two  elastic  bands  held 
these  cuffs  in  place,  and  only  long  practice  made  their 
arrangement  possible.  This  was  before  the  day  of 
elbow  sleeves,  although  Susan  Brown  always  included 
eblow  sleeves  in  a  description  of  a  model  garment  for 
office  wear,  with  which  she  sometimes  amused  her  asso- 
ciates. 

"No  wet  skirts  to  freeze  you  to  death,"  Susan  would 
grumble,  "no  high  collar  to  scratch  youl  It's  time  that 
the  office  women  of  America  were  recognized  as  a  class 
with  a  class  dress !  Short  sleeves,  loose,  baggy  trous- 
ers  " 

A  shriek  would  interrupt  her. 

"Yes,  I  see  you  wearing  that  in  the  street,  Susan !" 

"Well,  I  -would.  Overshoes,"  the  inventor  would 
pursue,  "fleece-lined  leggings,  coming  well  up  on  your 
— may  I  allude  to  limbs,  Miss  Wrenn?" 

"I  don't  care  what  you  allude  to !"  Miss  Wrenn,  the 
office  prude,  a  little  angry  at  being  caught  listening  to 
this  nonsense,  would  answer  snappily. 

"Limbs,  then,"  Susan  would  proceed  graciously,  "or, 
as  Miss  Sherman  says,  legs " 

"Oh,  Miss  Brown!  I  didn't!  I  never  use  that 
word!"  the  little  woman  would  protest. 

"You  don't!     Why,  you  said  last  night  that  you 


6  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

were  trying  to  get  into  the  chorus  at  the  Tivoli !  You 
said  you  had  such  handsome " 

"Oh,  aren't  you  awful!"  Miss  Sherman  would  put 
her  cold  red  fingers  over  her  ears,  and  the  others, 
easily  amused,  would  giggle  at  intervals  for  the  next 
half  hour. 

Susan  Brown's  desk  was  at  the  front  end  of  the 
room,  facing  down  the  double  line.  At  her  back  was  a 
round  window,  never  opened,  and  never  washed,  and 
so  obscured  by  the  great  cement  scrolls  that  decorated 
the  fagade  of  the  building  that  it  gave  only  a  dull  blur 
of  light,  ordinarily,  and  no  air  at  all.  Sometimes,  on 
a  bright  summer's  morning,  the  invading  sunlight  did 
manage  to  work  its  way  in  through  the  dust-coated  or- 
namental masonry,  and  to  fall,  for  a  few  moments,  in 
a  bright  slant,  wheeling  with  motes,  across  the  office 
floor.  But  usually  the  girls  depended  for  light  upon 
the  suspended  green-hooded  electric  lights,  one  over 
each  desk. 

Susan  though  that  she  had  the  most  desirable  seat 
in  the  room,  and  the  other  girls  carefully  concealed 
from  her  the  fact  that  they  thought  so,  too.  Two 
years  before,  a  newcomer,  she  had  been  given  this 
same  desk,  but  it  faced  directly  against  the  wall  then, 
and  was  in  the  shadow  of  a  dirty,  overcrowded  letter 
press.  Susan  had  turned  it  about,  straightened  it, 
pushed  the  press  down  the  room,  against  the  coat- 
closet,  and  now,  like  all  the  other  girls,  she  faced  the 
room,  could  see  more  than  any  of  them,  indeed,  and 
keep  an  eye  on  Mr.  Brauer,  and  on  the  main  floor  be- 
low, visible  through  the  glass  inner  wall  of  the  office. 
Miss  Brown  was  neither  orderly  nor  industrious,  but 
she  had  an  eye  for  proportion,  and  a  fine  imagination. 
She  loved  small,  fussy  tasks,  docketed  and  ruled  the 
contents  of  her  desk  scrupulously,  and  lettered  trim 
labels  for  boxes  and  drawers,  but  she  was  a  lazy  young 
creature  when  regular  work  was  to  be  done,  much 
given  to  idle  and  discontented  dreams. 

At  this  time  she  was  not  quite  twenty-one,  and  felt 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  7 

herself  to  be  distressingly  advanced  in  years.  Like  all 
except  a  few  very  fortunate  girls  of  her  age,  Susan 
was  brimming  with  perverted  energy — she  could  have 
done  a  thousand  things  well  and  joyously,  could  have 
used  to  the  utmost  the  exceptional  powers  of  her  body 
and  soul,  but,  handicapped  by  the  ideals  of  her  sex, 
and  lacking  the  rare  guidance  that  might  have  saved 
her,  she  was  drifting,  busy  with  work  she  detested, 
or  equally  unsatisfied  in  idleness,  sometimes  lazily  di- 
verted and  soothed  by  the  passing  hour,  and  some- 
times stung  to  her  very  soul  by  longings  and  ambi- 
tions. 

"She  is  no  older  than  I  am — she  works  no  harder 
than  I  do!"  Susan  would  reflect,  studying  the  life  of 
some  writer  or  actress  with  bitter  envy.  But  how 
to  get  out  of  this  groove,  and  into  another,  how  to 
work  and  fight  and  climb,  she  did  not  know,  and  no- 
body ever  helped  her  to  discover. 

There  was  no  future  for  her,  or  for  any  girl  here, 
that  she  knew.  Miss  Thornton,  after  twelve  years  of 
work,  was  being  paid  forty-five  dollars,  Miss  Wrenn, 
after  eight  years,  forty,  and  Susan  only  thirty  dollars 
a  month.  Brooding  over  these  things,  Susan  would 
let  her  work  accumulate,  and  endure,  in  heavy  silence, 
the  kindly,  curious  speculations  and  comments  of  her 
associates. 

But  perhaps  a  hot  lunch  or  a  friendly  word  would 
send  her  spirits  suddenly  up  again,  Susan  would  forget 
her  vague  ambitions,  and  reflect  cheerfully  that  it  was 
already  four  o'clock,  that  she  was  going  with  Cousin 
Mary  Lou  and  Billy  Oliver  to  the  Orpheum  to-night, 
that  her  best  white  shirtwaist  ought  by  this  time  to 
have  come  back  from  the  laundry. 

Or  somehow,  if  depression  continued,  she  would 
shut  her  desk,  in  mid-afternoon,  and  leave  Front  Office, 
cross  the  long  deck — which  was  a  sort  of  sample 
room  for  rubber  goods,  and  was  lined  with  long  cases 
of  them — descend  a  flight  of  stairs  to  the  main  floor, 
cross  it  and  remount  the  stairs  on  the  other  side  of 


8  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

the  building,  and  enter  the  mail-order  department. 
This  was  an  immense  room,  where  fifty  men  and  a 
few  girls  were  busy  at  long  desks,  the  air  was  filled 
with  the  hum  of  typewriters  and  the  murmur  of  low 
voices.  Beyond  it  was  a  door  that  gave  upon  more 
stairs,  and  at  the  top  of  them  a  small  bare  room  known 
as  the  lunch-room.  Here  was  a  great  locker,  still 
marked  with  the  labels  that  had  shown  where  senna 
leaves  and  tansy  and  hepatica  had  been  kept  in  some 
earlier  stage  of  Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter's  exist- 
ence, and  now  filled  with  the  girls'  lunch-boxes,  and 
rubber  overshoes,  and  hair-brushes.  There  was  a 
small  gas-stove  in  this  room,  and  a  long  table  with 
benches  built  about  it.  A  door  gave  upon  a  high  strip 
of  flat  roof,  and  beyond  a  pebbled  stretch  of  tar  were 
the  dressings-rooms,  where  there  were  wash-stands,  and 
soap,  and  limp  towels  on  rollers. 

Here  Susan  would  wash  her  hands  and  face,  and 
comb  her  bright  thick  hair,  and  straighten  belt  and 
collar.  There  were  always  girls  here:  a  late-comer 
eating  her  luncheon,  two  chatter-boxes  sharing  a  bit  of 
powdered  chamois-skin  at  a  mirror,  a  girl  who  felt  ill 
drinking  something  hot  at  the  stove.  Here  was  always 
company,  and  gossip,  Susan  might  stop  for  a  half-cup 
of  scalding  hot  tea,  or  a  chocolate  from  a  striped  paper 
bag.  Returning,  refreshed  and  cheered,  to  the  office> 
she  would  lay  a  warm,  damp  hand  over  Miss  Thorn- 
ton's, and  give  her  the  news. 

"Miss  Polk  and  Miss  French  are  just  going  it  up 
there,  Thorny,  mad  as  hops!"  or  "Miss  O'Brien  is 
going  to  be  in  Mr.  Joe  Hunter's  office  after  this." 

"  'S'at  so?"  Miss  Thornton  would  interestedly  re- 
turn, wrinkling  her  nose  under  the  glasses  she  used 
while  she  was  working.  And  perhaps  after  a  few 
moments  she  would  slip  away  herself  for  a  visit  to 
the  lunch-room.  Mr.  Brauer,  watching  Front  Office 
through  his  glass  doors,  attempted  in  vain  to  discourage 
these  excursions.  The  bolder  spirits  enjoyed  defying 
him,  and  the  more  timid  never  dared  to  leave  their 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  9 

places  in  any  case.  Miss  Sherman,  haunted  by  the 
horror  of  "losing  her  job,"  eyed  the  independent  Miss 
Brown  and  Miss  Thornton  with  open  awe  and  admira- 
tion, without  ever  attempting  to  emulate  them. 

Next  to  Susan  sat  severe,  handsome,  reserved  little 
Miss  Wrenn,  who  coldly  repelled  any  attempts  at. 
friendship,  and  bitterly  hated  the  office.  Except  for 
an  occasional  satiric  comment,  or  a  half-amused  correc- 
tion of  someone's  grammar,  Miss  Wrenn  rarely 
spoke. 

Miss  Cashell  was  her  neighbor,  a  mysterious,  pretty 
girl,  with  wicked  eyes  and  a  hard  face,  and  a  manner 
so  artless,  effusive  and  virtuous  as  to  awaken  the  basest 
suspicions  among  her  associates.  Miss  Cashell  dressed 
very  charmingly,  and  never  expressed  an  opinion  that 
would  not  well  have  become  a  cloistered  nun,  but  the 
girls  read  her  colorless  face,  sensuous  mouth,  and  sly 
dark  eyes  aright,  and  nobody  in  Front  Office  "went" 
with  Miss  Cashell.  Next  her  was  Mrs.  Valencia,  a 
iiarmless  little  fool  of  a  woman,  who  held  her  position 
merely  because  her  husband  had  been  long  in  the  em- 
ploy of  the  Hunter  family,  and  who  made  more  mis- 
takes than  all  the  rest  of  the  staff  put  together.  Susan 
disliked  Mrs.  Valencia  because  of  the  jokes  she  told, 
jokes  that  the  girl  did  not  in  all  honesty  always  under- 
stand, and  because  the  little  widow  was  suspected  of 
"reporting"  various  girls  now  and  then  to  Mr.  Hunter. 

Finishing  the  two  rows  of  desks,  down  opposite 
Miss  Thornton  again  were  Miss  Kelly  and  Miss  Gar- 
vey,  fresh-faced,  intelligent  Irish  girls,  simple,  merry, 
and  devoted  to  each  other.  These  two  took  small  part 
in  what  did  not  immediately  concern  them,  but  went  off 
to  Confession  together  every  Saturday,  spent  their  Sun- 
days together,  and  laughed  and  whispered  together 
over  their  ledgers.  Everything  about  them  was  artless 
and  pure.  Susan,  motherless  herself,  never  tired  of 
their  talk  of  home,  their  mothers,  their  married  sis- 
ters, their  cousins  in  convents,  their  Church  picnics 
and  concerts  and  fairs,  and  "joshes" — "joshes"  were 


10  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

as  the  breath  of  life  to  this  innocent  pair.  "Joshes 
on  Ma,"  "joshes  on  Joe  and  Dan,"  "joshes  on  Cecilia 
and  Loretta"  filled  their  conversations. 

"And  Ma  yells  up,  'What  are  you  two  layin'  awake 
about?'  "  Miss  Garvey  would  recount,  with  tears  of  en- 
joyment in  her  eyes.  "But  we  never  said  nothing,  did 
we,  Gert?  Well,  about  twelve  o'clock  we  heard  Leo 
come  in,  and  he  come  upstairs,  and  he  let  out  a  yell — 
'My  God!'  he  says -" 

But  at  the  recollection  of  Leo's  discovery  of  the 
sheeted  form,  or  the  pail  of  water,  or  whatever  had 
awaited  him  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  Miss  Garvey's 
voice  would  fail  entirely,  and  Miss  Kelly  .would  also 
lay  her  head  down  on  her  desk,  and  sob  with  mirth. 
It  was  infectious,  everyone  else  laughed,  too. 

To-day  Susan,  perceiving  something  amiss  with  Miss 
Thornton,  sauntered  the  length  of  the  office,  and  leaned 
over  the  older  woman's  desk.  Miss  Thornton  was 
scribbling  a  little  list  of  edibles,  her  errand  boy  wait- 
ing beside  her.  Tea  and  canned  tomatoes  were  bought 
by  the  girls  every  day,  to  help  out  the  dry  lunches 
they  brought  from  home,  and  almost  every  day  the 
collection  of  dimes  and  nickels  permitted  a  "wreath- 
cake"  also,  a  spongy,  glazed  confection  filled  with 
chopped  nuts  and  raisins.  The  tomatoes,  bubbling  hot 
and  highly  seasoned,  were  quite  as  much  in  demand 
as  was  the  tea,  and  sometimes  two  or  three  girls  made 
their  entire  lunch  up  by  enlarging  this  list  with  cheese, 
sausages  and  fruit. 

"Mad  about  something,"  asked  Susan,  when  the  list 
for  to-day  was  finished. 

Miss  Thornton,  under  "2  wreath"  wrote  hastily, 
"Boiling!  Tell  you  later,"  and  turned  it  about  for 
Susan  to  read,  before  she  erased  it. 

"Shall  I  get  that?"  she  asked,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
attentive  office. 

"Yes,  I  would,"  answered  her  fellow-conspirator,  as 
she  turned  away. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  11 

The  hour  droned  by.  Boys  came  with  bills,  and 
went  away  again.  Sudden  sharp  pangs  began  to  assert 
themselves  in  Susan's  stomach.  An  odor  of  burning 
rubber  drifted  up  from  below,  as  it  always  drifted  up 
at  about  this  time.  Susan  announced  that  she  was 
starving. 

"It's  not  more  than  half-past  eleven,"  said  Miss  Cot- 
tie,  screwing  her  body  about,  so  that  she  could  look 
down  through  the  glass  walls  of  the  office  to  the  clock, 
on  the  main  floor  below.  "Why,  my  heavens!  It's 
twelve  o'clock!"  she  announced  amazedly,  throwing 
down  her  pen,  and  stretching  in  her  chair. 

And,  in  instant  confirmation  of  the  fact,  a  whistle 
sounded  shrilly  outside,  followed  by  a  dozen  more  whis- 
tles, high  and  low,  constant  and  intermittent,  sharp  on 
the  silent  noon  air.  The  girls  all  jumped  up,  except 
Miss  Wrenn,  who  liked  to  assume  that  the  noon  hour 
meant  nothing  to  her,  and  who  often  finished  a  bill 
or  two  after  the  hour  struck. 

But  among  the  others,  ledgers  were  slammed  shut, 
desk  drawers  jerked  open,  lights  snapped  out.  Miss 
Thornton  had  disappeared  ten  minutes  before  in  the 
direction  of  the  lunch-room;  now  all  the  others  fol- 
lowed, yawning,  cramped,  talkative. 

They  settled  noisily  about  the  table,  and  opened 
their  lunches.  A  joyous  confusion  of  talk  rose 
above  the  clinking  of  spoons  and  plates,  as  the  heavy 
cups  of  steaming  tea  were  passed  and  the  sugar-bowl 
went  the  rounds;  there  was  no  milk,  and  no  girl  at 
Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter's  thought  lemon  in  tea  any- 
thing but  a  wretched  affectation.  Girls  who  had  been 
too  pale  before  gained  a  sudden  burning  color,  they 
had  been  sitting  still  and  were  hungry,  now  they  ate 
too  fast.  Without  exception  the  Front  Office  girls 
suffered  from  agonies  of  indigestion,  and  most  of  them 
grew  used  to  a  dull  headache  that  came  on  every 
afternoon.  They  kept  flat  bottles  of  soda-mint  tablets 
in  their  desks,  and  exchanged  them  hourly.  No  youth- 
ful constitution  was  proof  against  the  speed  with  which 


12  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

they  disposed  of  these  fresh  soft  sandwiches  at  noon- 
time, and  gulped  down  their  tea. 

In  ten  minutes  some  of  them  were  ready  to  hurry 
off  into  sunny  Front  Street,  there  to  saunter  past 
warehouses,  and  warehouses,  and  warehouses,  with 
lounging  men  eyeing  them  from  open  doorways. 

The  Kirks  disappeared  quickly  to-day,  and  some  of 
the  others  went  out,  too.  When  Miss  Thornton,  Miss 
Sherman,  Miss  Cottle  and  Miss  Brown  were  left,  Miss 
Thornton  said  suddenly: 

"Say,  listen,  Susan.     Listen  here " 

Susan,  who  had  been  wiping  the  table  carefully,  ar- 
tistically, with  a  damp  rag,  was  arrested  by  the  tone. 

"I  think  this  is  the  rottenest  thing  I  ever  heard, 
Susan,"  Miss  Thornton  began,  sitting  down  at  the 
table.  The  others  all  sat  down,  too,  and  put  their 
elbows  on  the  table.  Susan,  flushing  uncomfortably, 
eyed  Miss  Thornton  steadily. 

"Brauer  called  me  in  this  morning,"  said  Miss 
Thornton,  in  a  low  voice,  marking  the  table  with  the 
handle  of  a  fork,  in  parallel  lines,  "and  he  asked  me 
if  I  thought — no,  that  ain't  the  way  he  began.  Here's 
what  he  said  first:  he  says,  'Miss  Thornton,'  he  says, 
'did  you  know  that  Miss  Wrenn  is  leaving  us?' ' 

"What  I"  said  all  the  others  together,  and  Susan 
added,  joyfully,  "Gee,  that  means  forty  for  me,  and 
the  crediting." 

"Well,  now  listen,"  Miss  Thornton  resumed.  "I 
says,  'Mr.  Brauer,  Miss  Wrenn  didn't  put  herself  out 
to  inform  me  of  her  plans,  but  never  mind.  Although,' 
T  says,  'I  taught  that  girl  everything  she  ever  knew 
of  office  work,  and  the  day  she  was  here  three  weeks 
Mr.  Philip  Hunter  himself  came  to  me  and  said,  "Miss 
Thornton,  can  you  make  anything  of  her?"  So  that  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  me '  ' 

"But,  Thorny,  what's  she  leaving  for?"  broke  in 
Susan,  with  the  excited  interest  that  the  smallest  change 
invariably  brought. 

"Her  uncle  in  Milwaukee  is  going  to  pay  her  ex- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  13 

penses  while  she  takes  a  library  course,  I  believe," 
Miss  Thornton  said,  indifferently.  "Anyway,  then 
Brauer  asked — now,  listen,  Susan — he  asked  if  I 
thought  Violet  Kirk  could  do  the  crediting " 

"Violet  Kirk!"  echoed  Susan,  in  incredulous  disap- 
pointment. This  blow  to  long-cherished  hopes  gave 
her  a  sensation  of  actual  sickness. 

"Violet  Kirk!"  the  others  broke  out,  indignant  and 
astonished.  "Why,  she  can't  do  it!  Is  he  crazy? 
Why,  Joe  Hunter  himself  told  Susan  to  work  up  on 
that !  Why,  Susan's  done  all  the  substituting  on  that  I 
What  does  she  know  about  it,  anyway?  Well,  wouldn't 
that  honestly  jar  you !" 

Susan  alone  did  not  speak.  She  had  in  turn  begun 
to  mark  the  table,  in  fine,  precise  lines,  with  a  hairpin. 
She  had  grown  rather  pale. 

"It's  a  rotten  shame,  Susan,"  said  Rose  Murray, 
sympathetically.  Miss  Sherman  eyed  Susan  with  scared 
and  sorrowful  eyes.  "Don't  you  care — don't  you  care, 
Susan !"  said  the  soothing  voices. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Susan  presently,  in  a  hard,  level 
voice.  She  raised  her  somber  eyes.  "I  don't  care 
because  I  simply  won't  stand  it,  that's  all,"  said  she. 
"I'll  go  straight  to  Mr.  Baxter.  Yes,  I  will,  Thorny. 
Brauer'll  see  if  he  can  run  everything  this  way!  Is 
she  going  to  get  forty?" 

"What  do  you  care  if  she  does?"  Miss  Thornton 
said,  hardily. 

"All  right,"  Susan  answered.  "Very  well.  But  I'll 
get  forty  next  month  or  I'll  leave  this  place !  And  I'm 
not  one  bit  afraid  to  go  straight  to  old  'J.  G.'  and  tell 
him  so,  too !  I'll " 

"Listen,  Susan,  now  listen,"  urged  Miss  Thornton. 
"Don't  you  get  mad,  Susan.  She  can't  do  it.  It'll  be 
just  one  mistake  after  another.  Brauer  will  have  to 
give  it  to  you,  inside  of  two  months.  She'll  find," 
said  Miss  Thornton,  with  a  grim  tightening  of  the 
lips,  "that  precious  few  mistakes  get  by  me!  I'll  make 
that  girl's  life  a  burden,  you  trust  me!  And  mean- 


14  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

time  you  work  up  on  that  line,  Sue,  and  be  ready  for 
it!" 

Susan  did  not  answer.  She  was  staring  at  the  table 
again,  cleaning  the  cracks  in  its  worn  old  surface  with 
her  hairpin. 

"Thorny,"  she  said  huskily,  "you  know  me.  Do  you 
think  that  this  is  fair?" 

"Aw — aw,  now,  Susan,  don't!"  Miss  Thornton 
jumped  up,  and  put  her  arm  about  Susan's  shoulders, 
and  Susan,  completely  unnerved  by  the  sympathy  in 
the  other's  tone,  dropped  her  head  upon  her  arm,  and 
began  to  cry. 

A  distressed  murmur  of  concern  and  pity  rose  all 
about  her,  everyone  patted  her  shoulder,  and  bitter 
denunciations  of  Mr.  Brauer  and  Miss  Kirk  broke 
forth.  Even  Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter  were  not 
spared,  being  freely  characterized  as  "the  rottenest 
people  in  the  city  to  work  for!"  "It  would  serve  them 
right,"  said  more  than  one  indignant  voice,  "if  the 
whole  crowd  of  us  walked  out  on  them !" 

Presently  Susan  indicated,  by  a  few  gulps,  and  by 
straightening  suddenly,  that  the  worst  of  the  storm 
was  over,  and  could  even  laugh  shakily  when  Miss 
Thornton  gave  her  a  small,  fringed  lunch  napkin  upon 
which  to  wipe  her  eyes. 

"I'm  a  fool  to  cry  this  way,"  said  Susan,  sniffing. 

"Fool!"  Miss  Cottle  echoed  tenderly,  "It's  enough 
to  make  a  cow  cry!" 

"Not  calling  Susan  a  cow,  or  anything  like  that," 
said  Miss  Thornton  humorously,  as  she  softly 
smoothed  Susan's  hair.  At  which  Susan  began  to 
laugh  violently,  and  the  others  became  almost  hyster- 
ical in  their  delight  at  seeing  her  equilibrium  restored. 

"But  you  know  what  I  do  with  my  money,  Thorny," 
began  Susan,  her  eyes  filling  again. 

"She  gives  every  cent  to  her  aunt,"  said  Miss  Thorn- 
ton sternly,  as  if  she  accused  the  firm,  Mr.  Brauer  and 
Miss  Kirk  by  the  statement. 

"And  I've — worked — so  hard!"  Susan's  lips  were 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  15 

beginning  to  tremble  again.  But  with  an  effort  she 
controlled  herself,  fumbled  for  a  handkerchief,  and 
faced  the  group,  disfigured  as  to  complexion,  tumbled 
as  to  hair,  but  calm. 

"Well,  there's  no  help  for  it,  I  suppose!"  said  she 
hardily,  in  a  tone  somewhat  hoarsened  by  tears. 
"You're  all  darlings,  and  I'm  a  fool.  But  I  certainly 
intend  to  get  even  with  Mr.  Brauer!" 

"Don't  give  up  your  job,"  Miss  Sherman  pleaded. 

"I  will  the  minute  I  get  another,"  said  Susan,  mo- 
rosely, adding  anxiously,  "Do  I  look  a  perfect  fright, 
Thorny?  Do  my  eyes  show?" 

"Not  much "  Miss  Cottle  wavered. 

"Wash  them  with  cold  water,  and  powder  your 
nose,"  advised  Miss  Thornton  briskly. 

"And  my  hair !"  Susan  put  her  hand  to  the  dis- 
ordered mass,  and  laughed  helplessly. 

"It's  all  right!"  Thorny  patted  it  affectionately. 
"Isn't  it  gorgeous,  girls  ?  Don't  you  care,  Susan,  you're 
worth  ten  of  the  Kirks!" 

"Here  they  come  now!"  Miss  Murray  whispered, 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  "Beat  it,  Susan,  don't  let 
'em  see  you!" 

.  Susan  duly  fled  to  the  wash-room,  where,  concealed 
a  moment  later  by  a  towel,  and  the  hanging  veil  of 
her  hair,  she  could  meet  the  Kirks'  glances  innocently 
enough.  Later,  fresh  and  tidy,  she  took  her  place  at 
her  desk,  rather  refreshed  by  her  outburst,  and  curi- 
ously peaceful  in  spirit.  The  joys  of  martyrdom  were 
Susan's,  she  was  particularly  busy  and  cheerful.  Fate 
had  dealt  her  cruel  blows  before  this  one,  she  inher- 
ited from  some  persecuted  Irish  ancestor  a  grim  pleas- 
ure in  accepting  them. 

Afternoons,  from  one  o'clock  until  half-past  five, 
seemed  endless  in  Front  Office.  Mornings,  beside  be- 
ing exactly  one  hour  shorter  by  the  clock,  could  be 
still  more  abbreviated  by  the  few  moments  gained 
by  the  disposal  of  hats  and  wraps,  the  dusting  of 
desks,  sharpening  of  pencils,  and  filling  of  ink-wells. 


16  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

The  girls  used  a  great  many  blocks  of  yellow  paper 
called  scratch-pads,  and  scratch-pads  must  be  gotten 
down  almost  daily  from  the  closet,  dusted  and  dis- 
tributed, there  were  paper  cuffs  to  adjust,  and  there 
was  sometimes  a  ten  or  fifteen-minute  delay  before  the 
bills  for  the  day  began  to  come  up.  But  the  afternoons 
knew  no  such  delays,  the  girls  were  tired,  the  air  in 
the  office  stale.  Every  girl,  consciously  or  not,  sighed 
as  she  took  her  seat  at  one  o'clock. 

The  work  in  Front  Office  was  entirely  with  bills. 
These  bills  were  of  the  sales  made  in  the  house  itself 
the  day  before,  and  those  sent  by  mail  from  the  trav- 
eling salesmen,  and  were  accompanied  by  duplicate 
bills,  on  thin  yellow  sheets.  It  was  Mrs.  Valencia's 
work,  the  easiest  in  the  office,  to  compare  originals 
and  duplicates,  and  supply  to  the  latter  any  item  that 
was  missing.  Hundreds  of  the  bills  were  made  out 
for  only  one  or  two  items,  many  were  but  one  page 
in  length,  and  there  were  several  scores  of  longer 
iones  every  day,  raging  from  two  to  twenty  pages. 

The  original  bills  went  downstairs  again  immedi- 
ately, and  Miss  Thornton,  taking  the  duplicates  one 
by  one  from  Mrs.  Valencia,  marked  the  cost  price  of 
every  article  in  the  margin  beyond  the  selling  price. 
Thorny,  after  twelve  years'  experience,  could  jot  down 
costs,  percentages  and  discounts  at  an  incredible  speed. 
Drugs,  patent  medicines,  surgical  goods  and  toilet 
articles  she  could  price  as  fast  as  she  could  read  them, 
and,  even  while  her  right  hand  scribbled  busily,  her 
left  hand  turned  the  pages  of  her  cost  catalog  auto- 
matically, when  her  trained  eye  discovered,  half-way 
down  the  page,  some  item  of  which  she  was  not  quite 
sure.  Susan  never  tired  of  admiring  the  swiftness  with 
which  hand,  eye  and  brain  worked  together.  Thorny 
would  stop  in  her  mad  flight,  ponder  an  item  with 
absent  eyes  fixed  on  space,  suddenly  recall  the  price, 
i  affix  the  discounts,  and  be  ready  for  the  next  item. 
Susan  had  the  natural  admiration  of  an  imaginative 
mind  for  power,  and  the  fact  that  Miss  Thornton  was 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  17 

by  far  the  cleverest  woman  in  the  office  was  one  reason 
why  Susan  loved  her  best. 

Miss  Thornton  whisked  her  finished  duplicates,  in  a 
growing  pile,  to  the  left-hand  side  of  Miss  Murray's 
desk.  Her  neighbor  also  did  "costing,"  but  in  a  sim- 
pler form.  Miss  Murray  merely  marked,  sometimes 
at  cost,  sometimes  at  an  advance,  those  articles  that 
were  "B.  O."  or  "bought  out,"  not  carried  in  Hunter, 
Baxter  &  Hunter's  regular  stock.  Candy,  postal- 
cards,  cameras,  sporting-goods,  stamps,  cigars,  sta- 
tionery, fruit-sirups,  all  the  things  in  fact,  that  the 
firm's  customers,  all  over  the  state,  carried  in  their 
little  country  stores,  were  "B.  O."  Miss  Murray  had 
invoices  for  them  all,  and  checked  them  off  as  fast  as 
she  could  find  their  places  on  the  duplicates. 

Then  Miss  Cottle  and  Susan  Brown  got  the  dupli- 
cates and  "extended"  them.  So  many  cases  of  cold 
cream  at  so  much  per  case,  so  many  ounces  of  this  or 
that  at  so  much  the  pound,  so  many  pounds  at  so  much 
per  ounce,  and  forty  and  ten  and  ten  off.  Two-thirds 
of  a  dozen,  one  hundredweight,  one  eighth  of  a  gross, 
twelve  per  cent,  off,  and  twenty-three  per  cent,  on  for 
freight  charges;  the  "extenders"  had  to  keep  their 
wits  about  them. 

After  that  the  duplicates  went  to  Miss  Sherman, 
who  set  down  the  difference  between  cost  and  selling 
price.  So  that  eventually  every  article  was  marked 
five  times,  its  original  selling  price,  extended  by  the 
salesman,  its  cost  price,  separately  extended,  and  the 
difference  between  the  two. 

From  Miss  Sherman  the  bills  went  to  the  Misses 
Kirk,  who  gave  every  item  a  red  number  that  marked 
it  in  its  proper  department,  drugs  or  rubber  goods  or 
soaps  and  creams  and  colognes.  The  entire  stock  was 
divided  into  ten  of  these  departments,  and  there  were 
ten  great  ledgers  in  which  to  make  entries  for  each 
one. 

And  for  every  one  of  a  hundred  salesmen  a  sep- 
arate great  sheet  was  kept  for  the  record  of  sales,  all 


18  SATURDAY'S  CHILD 

marked  with  the  rubber  stamp  "B.  O.,"  or  the  number 
of  a  department  in  red  ink.  This  was  called  "credit- 
ing," and  was  done  by  Miss  Wrenn.  Finally,  Miss 
Garvey  and  Miss  Kelly  took  the  now  limp  bills,  and 
extracted  from  them  bewildering  figures  called  "the 
percentages,"  into  the  mysteries  of  which  Susan  never 
dared  to  penetrate. 

This  whole  involved  and  intricate  system  had  origi- 
nated, years  before,  in  the  brain  of  one  of  the  younger 
members  of  the  firm,  whose  theory  was  that  it  would 
enable  everyone  concerned  to  tell  "at  a  glance"  just 
where  the  firm  stood,  just  where  profits  and  losses  lay. 
Theoretically,  the  idea  was  sound,  and,  in  the  hands  of 
a  few  practiced  accountants,  it  might  have  been  prac- 
tically sound  as  well.  But  the  uninterested,  untrained 
girls  in  Front  Office  never  brought  their  work  any- 
where near  a  conclusion.  Several  duplicates  on  Miss 
Thornton's  desk  were  eternally  waiting  for  special 
prices,  several  more,  delayed  by  the  non-appearance  of 
invoices,  kept  Miss  Murray  always  in  arrears,  and 
Susan  Brown  had  a  little  habit  of  tucking  away  in  a  desk 
drawer  any  duplicate  whose  extension  promised  to  be 
unusually  tedious  or  difficult.  Girls  were  continually 
going  into  innocent  gales  of  mirth  because  long-lost  bills 
were  discovered,  shut  in  some  old  ledger,  or  rushing 
awe-struck  to  Miss  Thornton  with  accounts  of  others 
that  had  been  carried  away  in  waste-baskets  and 
burned. 

"Sh-sh!  Don't  make  such  a  fuss,"  Miss  Thornton 
would  say  warningly,  with  a  glance  toward  Mr,  Brau- 
er's  office.  "Perhaps  he'll  never  ask  for  them!" 

And  perhaps  he  never  did.  If  he  did,  the  office 
presented  him  a  blank  and  innocent  face.  "Miss 
Brown,  did  you  see  this  bill  Mr.  Brauer  speaks  of?" 
"Beg  pardon?  Oh,  no,  Miss  Thornton."  "Miss 
Cashell,  did  you?  "Just-one-moment-Miss-Thornton- 
until-I-foot-up-this-column.  Thank  you!  No.  No,  I 
haven't  seen  it,  Miss  Thornton.  Did  you  trace  it  to 
my  desk,  Mr.  Brauer?" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  19 

Baffled,  Mr.  Brauer  would  retire  to  his  office.  Ten 
silent,  busy  minutes  would  elapse  before  Miss  Cottle 
would  say,  in  a  low  tone,  "Bet  it  was  that  bill  that 
you  were  going  to  take  home  and  work  on,  Miss 
Murray!" 

"Oh,  sure!"  Miss  Murray  would  agree,  with  a  star- 
tled smile.  "Sure.  Mamma  stuck  it  behind  the  clock 
— I  remember  now.  I'll  bring  it  down  to-morrow." 

"Don't  you  forget  it,  now,"  Miss  Thornton  would 
perhaps  command,  with  a  sudden  touch  of  authority, 
"old  Baxter'd  jump  out  of  his  skin  if  he  knew  we 
ever  took  'em  home!" 

"Well,  you  do!"  Miss  Murray  would  retort,  red- 
dening resentfully. 

"Ah,  well,"  Susan  Brown  would  answer  pompously, 
for  Miss  Thornton,  "you  forget  that  I'm  almost  a 
member  of  the  firm!  Me  and  the  Baxters  can  do 
pretty  much  what  we  like!  I'll  fire  Brauer  to-morrow 
if  he " 

"You  shut  up,  Susan!"  Miss  Thornton,  her  rising 
resentment  pricked  like  a  bubble,  would  laugh  amiably, 
and  the  subject  of  the  bill  would  be  dismissed  with  a 
general  chuckle. 

On  this  particular  afternoon  Miss  Thornton  de- 
layed Susan  Brown,  with  a  significant  glance,  when  the 
whistle  blew  at  half-past  five,  and  the  girls  crowded 
about  the  little  closet  for  their  wraps. 

"S'listen,  Susan,"  said  she,  with  a  look  full  of  im- 
port. Susan  leaned  over  Miss  Thornton's  flat-topped 
desk  so  that  their  heads  were  close  together.  "Listen," 
said  Miss  Thornton,  in  a  low  tone,  "I  met  George 
Banks  on  the  deck  this  afternoon,  see?  And  I  hap- 
pened to  tell  him  that  Miss  Wrenn  was  going."  Miss 
Thornton  glanced  cautiously  about  her,  her  voice  sank 
to  a  low  murmur.  "Well.  And  then  he  says,  'Yes, 
I  knew  that,'  he  says,  'but  do  you  know  who's  going 
to  take  her  place?'  'Miss  Kirk  is,'  I  says,  'and  I  think 
it's  a  dirty  shame!' ' 


20  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Good  for  you!"  said  Susan,  grateful  for  this  loy- 
alty. 

"Well,  I  did,  Susan.  And  it  is,  too!  But  listen, 
'That  may  be,'  he  says,  'but  what  do  you  know  about 
young  Coleman  coming  down  to  work  in  Front  Of- 
fice!'" 

"Peter  Coleman !"  Susan  gasped.  This  was  the  most 
astonishing,  the  most  exciting  news  that  could  possibly 
have  been  circulated.  Peter  Coleman,  nephew  and 
heir  of  old  "J.  G."  himself,  handsome,  college-bred, 
popular  from  the  most  exclusive  dowager  in  society 
to  the  humblest  errand  boy  in  his  uncle's  employ,  actu- 
ally coming  down  to  Front  Office  daily,  to  share  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  the  Brauer  dynasty — it  was  unbe- 
lievable, it  was  glorious!  Every  girl  in  the  place  knew 
all  about  Peter  Coleman,  his  golf  record,  his  blooded 
terriers,  his  appearances  in  the  social  columns  of  the 
Sunday  newspapers !  Thorny  remembered,  although 
she  did  not  boast  of  it,  the  days  when,  a  little  lad  of 
twelve  or  fourteen,  he  had  come  to  his  uncle's  office 
with  a  tutor,  or  even  with  an  old,  and  very  proud, 
nurse,  for  the  occasional  visits  which  always  terminated 
with  the  delighted  acceptance  by  Peter  of  a  gold  piece 
from  Uncle  Josiah.  But  Susan  only  knew  him  as  a 
man,  twenty-five  now,  a  wonderful  and  fascinating 
person  to  watch,  even,  in  happy  moments,  to  dream 
about. 

"You  know  I  met  him,  Thorny,"  she  said  now,  eager 
and  smiling. 

" 'S'at  so?"  Miss  Thornton  said,  politely  uninter- 
ested. 

"Yes,  old  Baxter  introduced  me,  on  a  car.  But, 
Thorny,  he  can't  be  coming  right  down  here  into  this 
rotten  place !"  protested  Susan. 

"He'll  have  a  desk  in  Brauer's  office,"  Miss  Thorn- 
ton explained.  "He  is  to  learn  this  branch,  and  be 
manager  some  day.  George  says  that  Brauer  is  going 
to  buy  into  the  firm." 

"Well,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  Susan's  thoughts  flew. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  21 

"But,  Thorny,"  she  presently  submitted,  "isn't  Peter 
Coleman  in  college?" 

Miss  Thornton  looked  mysterious,  looked  regretful. 

"I  understand  old  J.  G.'s  real  upset  about  that,"  she 
said  discreetly,  "but  just  what  the  trouble  was,  I'm  not 
at  liberty  to  mention.  You  know  what  young  men 
are." 

"Sure,"  said  Susan,  thoughtfully. 

"I  don't  mean  that  there  was  any  scandal,"  Miss 
Thornton  amended  hastily,  "but  he's  more  of  an  athlete 
than  a  student,  I  guess " 

"Sure,"  Susan  agreed  again.  "And  a  lot  he  knows 
about  office  work,  «o/;"  she  mused.  "I'll  bet  he  gets 
a  good  salary?" 

"Three  hundred  and  fifty,"  supplied  Miss  Thornton. 

"Oh,  well,  that's  not  so  much,  considering.  He  must 
get  that  much  allowance,  too.  What  a  snap !  Thorny, 
what  do  you  bet  the  girls  all  go  crazy  about  him !" 

"All  except  one.     I  wouldn't  thank  you  for  him." 

"All  except  two!"  Susan  went  smiling  back  to  her 
desk,  a  little  more  excited  than  she  cared  to  show. 
She  snapped  off  her  light,  and  swept  pens  and  blotters 
into  a  drawer,  pulling  open  another  drawer  to  get  her 
purse  and  gloves.  By  this  time  the  office  was  deserted, 
and  Susan  could  take  her  time  at  the  little  mirror 
nailed  inside  the  closet  door. 

A  little  cramped,  a  little  chilly,  she  presently  went 
out  into  the  gusty  September  twilight  of  Front  Street. 
In  an  hour  the  wind  would  die  away.  Now  it  was 
sweeping  great  swirls  of  dust  and  chaff  into  the  eyes 
of  home-going  men  and  women.  Susan,  like  all  San 
Franciscans,  was  used  to  it.  She  bent  her  head,  sank 
her  hands  in  her  coat-pockets,  and  walked  fast. 

Sometimes  she  could  walk  home,  but  not  to-night,  in 
the  teeth  of  this  wind.  She  got  a  seat  on  the  "dummy" 
of  a  cable-car.  A  man  stood  on  the  step,  holding  on 
to  the  perpendicular  rod  just  before  her,  but  under 
his  arm  she  could  see  the  darkened  shops  they  passed, 
girls  and  men  streaming  out  of  doors  marked  "Em- 


22  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

ployees  Only,"  men  who  ran  for  the  car  and  caught 
it,  men  who  ran  for  the  car  and  missed  it.  Her  bright 
eyes  did  not  miss  an  inch  of  the  crowded  streets. 

Susan  smiled  dreamily.  She  was  arranging  the  de- 
tails of  her  own  wedding,  a  simple  but  charming  wed- 
ding in  Old  Saint  Mary's.  The  groom  was  of  course 
Mr.  Peter  Coleman. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  McAllister  Street  cable-car,  packed  to  its  last 
inch,  throbbed  upon  its  way  so  jerkily  that  Susan,  who 
was  wedged  in  close  to  the  glass  shield  at  the  front 
of  the  car,  had  sometimes  to  cling  to  the  seat  with 
knees  and  finger-tips  to  keep  from  sliding  against  her 
neighbor,  a  young  man  deep  in  a  trade-journal,  and 
sometimes  to  brace  herself  to  withstand  his  helpless 
sliding  against  her.  They  both  laughed  presently  at 
the  absurdity  of  it. 

"My,  don't  they  jerk!"  said  the  friendly  Susan,  and 
the  young  man  agreed  fervently,  in  a  bashful  mumble, 
"It's  fierce,  all  right,"  and  returned  to  his  book.  Susan, 
when  she  got  down  at  her  corner,  gave  him  a  little 
nod  and  smile,  and  he  lifted  his  hat,  and  smiled  brightly 
in  return. 

There  was  a  little  bakery  on  this  corner,  with  two 
gaslights  flaring  in  its  window.  Several  flat  pies  and 
small  cakes  were  displayed  there,  and  a  limp  curtain, 
on  a  string,  shut  off  the  shop,  where  a  dozen  people 
were  waiting  now.  A  bell  in  the  door  rang  violently, 
whenever  anyone  came  out  or  in.  Susan  knew  the 
bakery  well,  knew  when  the  rolls  were  hot,  and  just 
the  price  and  variety  of  the  cookies  and  the  pies. 

She  knew,  indeed,  every  inch  of  the  block,  a  dreary 
block  at  best,  perhaps  especially  dreary  in  this  gloomy 
pitiless  summer  twilight.  It  was  lined  with  shabby, 
bay-windowed,  three-story  wooden  houses,  all  exactly 
alike.  Each  had  a  flight  of  wooden  steps  running  -up 
to  the  second  floor,  a  basement  entrance  under  the 
steps,  and  a  small  cemented  yard,  where  papers  and 
chaff  and  orange  peels  gathered,  and  grass  languished 
and  died.  The  dining-room  of  each  house  was  in  the 

23 


24  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

basement,  and  slatternly  maids,  all  along  the  block, 
could  be  seen  setting  tables,  by  flaring  gas-light,  inside. 
Even  the  Nottingham  lace  curtains  at  the  second-story 
windows  seemed  akin,  although  they  varied  from  the 
stiff,  immaculate,  well-darned  lengths  that  adorned 
the  rooms  where  the  Clemenceaus — grandmother, 
daughter  and  granddaughter,  and  direct  descendants  of 
the  Comte  de  Moran — were  genteelly  starving  to 
death,  to  the  soft,  filthy,  torn  strips  that  finished  off 
the  parlor  of  the  noisy,  cheerful,  irrepressible  Daleys' 
once-pretentious  home.  Poverty  walked  visibly  upon 
this  block,  the  cold,  forbidding  poverty  of  pride  and 
courage  gone  wrong,  the  idle,  decorous,  helpless  pov- 
erty of  fallen  gentility.  Poverty  spoke  through  the 
unobtrusive  little  signs  over  every  bell,  "Rooms,"  and 
through  the  larger  signs  that  said  "Costello.  Modes 
and  Children's  Dressmaker."  Still  another  sign  in  a 
second-story  bay  said  "Alice.  Milliner,"  and  a  few 
hats,  dimly  discernible  from  the  street,  bore  out  the 
claim. 

Upon  the  house  where  Susan  Brown  lived  with  her 
aunt,  and  her  aunt's  three  daughters,  there  was  no  sign, 
although  Mrs.  Lancaster,  and  Mary  Lou,  Virginia  and 
Georgianna  had  supported  themselves  for  many  years 
by  the  cheerless  process  known  as  taking  boarders. 
Sometimes,  when  the  Lancasters  were  in  especially  try- 
ing financial  straits,  the  possibility  of  a  little  sign  was 
discussed.  But  so  far,  the  humiliating  extreme  had 
been  somehow  avoided. 

"No,  I  feel  that  Papa  wouldn't  like  it,"  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster persisted. 

"Oh,  Papa!  He'd  have  died  first!"  the  daughters 
would  agree,  in  eager  sympathy.  And  the  question  of 
the  sign  would  be  dismissed  again. 

"Papa"  had  been  a  power  in  his  day,  a  splendid, 
audacious,  autocratic  person,  successful  as  a  pioneer, 
a  miner,  a  speculator,  proud  of  a  beautiful  and  pam- 
pered Southern  wife  and  a  nurseryful  of  handsome 
children,  These  were  the  days  of  horses  and  car- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  25 

riages,  when  the  Eddy  Street  mansion  was  built,  when 
a  score  of  servants  waited  upon  Ma  and  the  children. 
But  terrible  times  came  finally  upon  this  grandeur,  the 
stock  madness  seized  "Papa,"  he  was  a  rich  man  one 
day,  a  millionaire  the  next, — he  would  be  a  multi- 
millionaire next  week !  Ma  never  ceased  to  be  grateful 
that  Papa,  on  the  very  day  that  his  fortune  crashed 
to  ruin,  came  home  too  sick  and  feverish  to  fully  com- 
prehend the  calamity,  and  was  lying  in  his  quiet  grave 
before  his  widow  and  her  children  did. 

Mrs.  Lancaster,  in  her  fresh  expensive  black,  with 
her  five  black-clad  children  beside  her,  thus  had  the 
world  to  face,  at  thirty-four.  George,  the  first-born, 
destined  to  die  in  his  twentieth  summer,  was  eighteen 
then,  Mary  Lou  sixteen,  helpless  and  feminine,  and 
Alfred,  at  thirteen,  already  showed  indications  of  be- 
ing entirely  spoiled.  Then  came  conscientious,  gentle 
little  Virginia,  ten  years  old,  and  finally  Georgianna> 
who  was  eight. 

Out  of  the  general  wreckage,  the  Fulton  Street  house 
was  saved,  and  to  the  Fulton  Street  house  the  spoiled, 
terrified  little  family  moved.  Mary  Lou  sometimes  told 
Susan  with  mournful  pride  of  the  weeping  and  wailing 
of  those  days,  of  dear  George's  first  job,  that,  with 
the  check  that  Ma's  uncle  in  Albany  sent  every  month, 
supported  the  family.  Then  the  uncle  died,  and  George 
died,  and  Ma,  shaken  from  her  silent  and  dignified 
retirement,  rose  to  the  occasion  in  a  manner  that 
Mary  Lou  always  regarded  as  miraculous,  and  filled 
the  house  with  boarders.  And  enjoyed  the  new  ven- 
ture thoroughly,  too,  although  Mary  Lou  never  sus- 
pected that.  Perhaps  Ma,  herself,  did  not  realize  how 
much  she  liked  to  bustle  and  toil,  how  gratifying  the 
stir  and  confusion  in  the  house  were,  after  the  silent 
want  and  loneliness.  Ma  always  spoke  of  women  in 
business  as  unfortunate  and  hardened;  she  never  spoke 
of  her  livelihood  as  anything  but  a  temporary  arrange- 
ment, never  made  out  a  bill  in  her  life.  Upon  her 
first  boarders,  indeed,  she  took  great  pride  in  lav- 


26  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

ishing  more  than  the  luxuries  for  which  their  board 
money  could  possibly  pay.  Ma  reminded  them  that  she 
had  no  rent  to  pay,  and  that  the  girls  would  soon  be 
married,  and  Alfie  working. 

But  Papa  had  been  dead  for  twenty  years  now,  and 
still  the  girls  were  unmarried,  and  Alfred,  if  he  was 
working,  was  doing  it  in  so  fitful  and  so  casual  a  man- 
ner as  to  be  much  more  of  a  burden  than  a  help  to  his 
mother.  Alfred  lost  one  position  after  another  be- 
cause he  drank,  and  Ma,  upon  whose  father's  table 
wine  had  been  quite  a  matter  of  course,  could  not 
understand  why  a  little  too  much  drinking  should  be 
taken  so  seriously  by  Alfie's  employers,  and  why  they 
could  not  give  the  boy  another — and  another,  and  an- 
other— chance.  Ma  never  alluded,  herself,  to  this  lit- 
tle weakness  of  Alfie's.  He  was  still  her  darling,  the 
one  son  she  had  left,  the  last  of  the  Lancasters. 

But,  as  the  years  went  on,  she  grew  to  be  less  of  the 
shrinking  Southern  lady,  more  the  boarding-house 
keeper.  If  she  wrote  no  bills,  she  kept  them  pretty 
straight  in  her  head,  and  only  her  endless  courage  and 
industry  kept  the  crazy  enterprise  afloat,  and  the  three 
idle  girls  comfortable  and  decently  dressed.  Theo- 
retically, they  "helped  Ma."  Really,  one  well-trained 
servant  could  have  done  far  more  than  Mary  Lou, 
Virginia  and  Georgie  did  between  them.  This  was,  of 
course,  primarily  her  own  fault.  Ma  belonged  to  the 
brisk  and  bustling  type  that  shoves  aside  a  pair  of  eager 
little  hands,  with  "Here,  I  can  do  that  better  myself!" 
She  was  indeed  proud  of  the  fact  that  Mary  Lou,  at 
thirty-six,  could  not  rent  a  room  or  receipt  a  bill  if 
her  life  were  at  stake.  "While  I'm  here,  I'll  do  this, 
dear,"  said  Ma,  cheerfully.  "When  I'm  gone  you'll 
have  quite  enough  to  do !" 

Susan  entered  a  small,  square  entrance-hall,  papered 
in  arabesques  of  green  against  a  dark  brown,  where  a 
bead  of  gas  flickered  dispiritedly  in  a  red  glass  shade 
over  the  newel  post.  Some  fly-specked  calling  cards 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  27 

languished  in  the  brass  tray  of  an  enormous  old  walnut 
hat-rack,  where  several  boarders  had  already  hung 
wraps  and  hats. 

The  upper  part  of  the  front  door  was  set  with  two 
panels  of  beveled  glass,  decorated  with  a  scroll  design 
in  frosted  glass.  When  Susan  Brown  had  been  a  very 
small  girl  she  would  sometimes  stand  inside  this  door 
and  study  the  passing  show  of  Fulton  Street  for  hours 
at  a  time.  Somebody  would  come  running  up  the 
street  steps,  and  pull  the  bell!  Susan  could  hear  it 
tinkle  far  downstairs  in  the  kitchen,  and  would  bash- 
fully retire  to  the  niche  by  the  hat-rack.  Minnie  or 
Lizzie,  or  perhaps  a  Japanese  schoolboy, — whoever  the 
servant  of  the  hour  might  be,  would  come  slowly  up 
the  inside  stairs,  and  cautiously  open  the  street  door 
an  inch  or  two. 

A  colloquy  would  ensue.  No,  Mrs.  Lancaster  wasn't 
in,  no,  none  of  the  family  wasn't  in.  He  could  leave 
it.  She  didn't  know,  they  hadn't  said.  He  could  leave 
it.  No,  she  didn't  know. 

The  collector  would  discontentedly  depart,  and  in- 
stantly Mary  Lou  or  Georgie,  or  perhaps  both,  would 
hang  over  the  railing  in  the  upper  hall. 

"Lizzie,  who  was  it?"  they  would  call  down  softly, 
impatient  and  excited,  as  Lizzie  dragged  her  way  up- 
stairs. 

"Who  was  it,  Mary  Lou?" 

"Why,  how  do  I  know?" 

"Here,  give  it  to  me,  Lizzie !" 

A  silence.  Then,  "Oh,  pshaw!"  and  the  sound  of  a 
closing  door.  Then  Lizzie  would  drag  downstairs 
again,  and  Susan  would  return  to  her  silent  contem- 
plation of  the  street. 

She  had  seen  nothing  particularly  odd  or  unattrac- 
tive about  the  house  in  those  little-girl  days,  and  it 
seemed  a  perfectly  normal  establishment  to  her  now. 
It  was  home,  and  it  was  good  to  get  home  after  the 
long  day.  She  ran  up  the  flight  of  stairs  that  the 
gas-bead  dimly  lighted,  and  up  another,  where  a  second 


28  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

gas-jet,  this  one  without  a  shade,  burned  unsteadily 
and  opened  the  door,  at  the  back  of  the  third-floor  hall, 
that  gave  upon  the  bedroom  that  she  shared  with 
Mary  Lou  and  Georgianna.  The  boarding-house  was 
crowded,  at  this  particular  time,  and  Georgie,  who 
flitted  about  as  a  rule  to  whatever  room  chanced  to  be 
empty,  was  now  quartered  here  and  slept  on  a  narrow 
couch,  set  at  an  angle  from  the  bay-window,  and  cov- 
ered with  a  worn  strip  of  chenille. 

It  was  a  shabby  room,  and  necessarily  crowded,  but 
it  was  bright,  and  its  one  window  gave  an  attractive 
view  of  little  tree-shaded  backyards  below,  where  small 
tragedies  and  comedies  were  continually  being  enacted 
by  dogs  and  babies  and  cats  and  the  crude  little  maids 
of  the  neighborhood.  Susan  enjoyed  these  thoroughly, 
and  she  and  Georgie  also  liked  to  watch  the  girl  in 
the  house  just  behind  theirs,  who  almost  always  for- 
got to  draw  the  shades  when  she  lighted  her  gas. 
Whatever  this  unconscious  neighbor  did  they  found 
very  amusing. 

"Oh,  look,   Georgie,   she's   changing  her   slippers! 

Don't  miss  this She  must  be  going  out  to-night!' 

Susan  v/ould  quiver  with  excitement  until  her  cousin 
joined  her  at  the  window. 

"Well,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  trying  her 
new  hat  on  to-day!"  Georgie  would  contribute.  And 
both  girls  would  kneel  at  the  window  as  long  as  the 
bedroom  in  the  next  house  was  lighted.  "Gone  down 
to  meet  that  man  in  the  light  overcoat,"  Susan  would 
surmise,  when  the  light  went  out,  and  if  she  and 
Georgie,  hurrying  to  the  bakery,  happened  to  encounter 
their  neighbor,  they  had  much  difficulty  in  suppressing 
their  mirth. 

To-night  the  room  that  the  cousins  shared  was 
empty,  and  Susan  threw  her  hat  and  coat  over  the  foot 
of  the  large,  lumpy  wooden  bed  that  seemed  to  take 
up  at  least  one-half  of  the  floor-space.  She  sat  down 
on  the  side  of  the  bed,  feeling  the  tension  of  the  day 
relax,  and  a  certain  lassitude  creep  over  her.  An  old 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  29 

magazine  lay  nearby  on  a  chair,  she  reached  for  it,  and 
began  idly  to  re-read  it. 

Beside  the  bed  and  Georgie's  cot,  there  was  a  walnut 
bureau  in  the  room,  two  chairs  and  one  rocking  chair, 
and  a  washstand.  One  the  latter  was  a  china  basin, 
half-full  of  cold,  soapy  water,  a  damp  towel  was  spread 
upon  the  pitcher  that  stood  beside  it  on  the  floor.  The 
wet  pink  soap,  lying  in  a  blue  saucer,  scented  the  room. 
On  the  bureau  were  combs  and  brushes,  powders  and 
cold  creams,  little  brass  and  china  trays  filled  with  pins 
and  buttons,  and  an  old  hand-mirror,  in  a  loosened, 
blackened  silver  mounting.  There  was  a  glazed  paper 
candy-box  with  hairpins  in  it,  and  a  little  liqueur  glass, 
with  "Hotel  Netherlands"  written  upon  it  in  gold, 
held  wooden  collar  buttons  and  odd  cuff-links.  A  great 
many  hatpins,  some  plain,  some  tarnished  and  ornate, 
all  bent,  were  stuck  into  a  little  black  china  boot.  A 
basket  of  china  and  gold  wire  was  full  of  comb- 
ings, some  dotted  veils  were  folded  into  squares,  and 
pinned  into  the  wooden  frame  of  the  mirror,  and  the 
mirror  itself  was  thickly  rimmed  with  cards  and  photo- 
graphs and  small  souvenirs  of  all  sorts,  that  had  been 
stuck  in  between  the  glass  and  the  frame.  There  were 
dance  cards  with  dangling  tiny  pencils  on  tasseled  cords, 
and  score  cards  plastered  with  tiny  stars.  There  were 
calling  cards,  and  newspaper  clippings,  and  tintypes 
taken  of  young  people  at  the  beach  or  the  Chutes.  A 
round  pilot-biscuit,  with  a  dozen  names  written  on  it  in 
pencil,  was  tied  with  a  midshipman's  hat-ribbon,  there 
were  wooden  plates  and  champagne  corks,  and  toy 
candy-boxes  in  the  shapes  of  guitars  and  fire-crackers. 
Miss  Georgie  Lancaster,  at  twenty-eight,  was  still  very 
girlish  and  gay,  and  she  shared  with  her  mother  and 
sisters  the  curious  instinctive  acquisitiveness  of  the 
woman  who,  powerless  financially  and  incapable  of  re- 
placing, can  only  save. 

Moments  went  by,  a  quarter-hour,  a  half-hour,  and 
still  Susan  sat  hunched  up  stupidly  over  her  book.  It 
was  not  an  interesting  magazine,  she  had  read  it  before, 


30  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

and  her  thoughts  ran  in  an  uneasy  undercurrent  while 
she  read.  "I  ought  to  be  doing  my  hair — it  must  be 
half-past  six  o'clock — I  must  stop  this " 

It  was  almost  half-past  six  when  the  door  opened 
suddenly,  and  a  large  woman  came  in. 

"Well,  hello,  little  girlie  1"  said  the  newcomer,  pant- 
ing from  the  climb  upstairs,  and  turning  a  cold,  fresh- 
colored  cheek  for  Susan's  kiss.  She  took  off  a  long 
coat,  displaying  beneath,  a  black  walking-skirt,  an  elab- 
orate high  collar,  and  a  view  of  shabby  corset  and 
shabby  corset-cover  between.  "Ma  wanted  butter," 
she  explained,  with  a  pleasant,  rueful  smile,  "and  I 
just  slipped  into  anything  to  go  for  it!" 

"You're  an  angel,  Mary  Lou,"  Susan  said  affection- 
ately. 

"Oh,  angel!"  Miss  Lancaster  laughed  wearily,  but 
she  liked  the  compliment  for  all  that.  "I'm  not  much 
of  an  angel,"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  throwing  her  hat 
and  coat  down  beside  Susan's,  and  assuming  a  some- 
what spotted  serge  skirt,  and  a  limp  silk  waist  a  trifle 
too  small  for  her  generous  proportions.  Susan  watched 
her  in  silence,  while  she  vigorously  jerked  the  little 
waist  this  way  and  that,  pinning  its  torn  edges  down 
firmly,  adjusting  her  skirt  over  it,  and  covering  the 
safety-pin  that  united  them  with  a  cracked  patent- 
leather  belt. 

"There!"  said  Mary  Lou,  "that  doesn't  look  very 
well,  but  I  guess  it'll  do.  I  have  to  serve  to-night, 
and  I  will  not  wear  my  best  skirt  into  the  kitchen. 
Ready  to  go  down?" 

Susan  flung  her  book  down,  yawned. 

"I  ought  to  do  my  hair "  she  began. 

"Oh,  you  look  all  right,"  her  cousin  assured  her, 
"I  wouldn't  bother." 

She  took  a  small  paper  bag  full  of  candy  from  her 
shopping  bag  and  tucked  it  out  of  sight  in  a  bureau 
drawer.  "Here's  a  little  sweet  bite  for  you  and  me, 
Sue,"  said  she,  with  childish,  sweet  slyness,  "when 
Jinny  and  Ma  go' to  the  lecture  to-night,  we'll  have 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  31 

our  little  party,  too.  Just  a  little  secret  between  you 
and  me." 

They  went  downstairs  with  their  arms  about  each 
other,  to  the  big  front  dining-room  in  the  basement. 
The  lower  hall  was  dark  and  draughty,  and  smelled 
of  boiling  vegetables.  There  was  a  telephone  on  a 
little  table,  close  by  the  dining-room  door,  and  a  slen- 
der, pretty  young  woman  was  seated  before  it.  She 
put  her  hand  over  the  transmitter,  as  they  came  down- 
stairs, and  said  in  a  smiling  whisper,  "Hello,  darling  1" 
to  Susan.  "Shut  the  door,"  she  added,  very  low,  "when 
you  go  into  the  dining-room." 

Susan  nodded,  and  Georgianna  Lancaster  returned 
at  once  to  her  telephoned  conversation. 

"Yes,  you  did!"  said  she,  satirically,  "I  believe  that! 
.  .  .  Oh,  of  course  you  did!  .  .  .  And  I  suppose 
you  wrote  me  a  note,  too,  only  I  didn't  get  it.  Now. 
listen,  why  don't  you  say  that  you  forgot  all  about  it, 
I  wouldn't  care.  .  .  .  Honestly,  I  wouldn't  .  .  . 
honestly,  I  wouldn't.  .  .  .  Yes,  I've  heard  that  be- 
fore. .  .  .  No,  he  didn't  either,  Rose  was  furious. 
.  .  .  No,  I  wasn't  furious  at  all,  but  at  the  same  time 
I  didn't  think  it  was  a  very  gentlemanly  way  to  act, 
on  your  part  ..." 

Susan  and  Mary  Lou  went  into  the  dining-room,  and 
the  closing  door  shut  off  the  rest  of  the  conversation. 
The  household  was  quite  used  to  Georgie's  quarrels 
with  her  male  friends. 

A  large,  handsome  woman,  who  did  not  look  her 
sixty  years,  was  moving  about  the  long  table,  which, 
spread  with  a  limp  and  slightly  spotted  cloth,  was  par- 
tially laid  for  dinner.  Knives,  spoons,  forks  and  rolled 
napkins  were  laid  in  a  little  heap  at  each  place,  the 
length  of  the  table  was  broken  by  salt  shakers  of 
pink  and  blue  glass,  plates  of  soda  crackers,  and  saucers 
of  green  pickles. 

"Hello,  Auntie!"  Susan  said,  laying  an  arm  about 
the  portly  figure,  and  giving  the  lady  a  kiss.  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster's anxious  eye  went  to  her  oldest  daughter. 


32  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Who's  Georgia  talking  to?"  she  asked,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"I  don't  know,  Ma,"  Mary  Lou  said,  sympathet- 
ically, pushing  a  chair  against  the  table  with  her  knee, 
"Fred  Persons,  most  likely." 

"No.  'Tisn't  Fred.  She  just  spoke  about  Fred," 
said  the  mother  uneasily.  "This  is  the  man  that  didn't 
meet  them  Sunday.  Sometimes,"  she  complained,  "it 
don't  seem  like  Georgie  has  any  dignity  at  all !"  She 
had  moved  to  the  china  closet  at  one  end  of  the  room, 
and  now  stood  staring  at  it.  "What  did  I  come  here 
for?"  she  asked,  helplessly. 

"Glasses,"  prompted  Susan,  taking  some  down  her- 
self. 

"Glasses,"  Mrs.  Lancaster  echoed,  in  relief.  "Get 
the  butter,  Mary  Lou?" 

"In  the  kitchen,  Ma."  Miss  Lancaster  went  into 
the  kitchen  herself,  and  Susan  went  on  with  the  table- 
setting.  Before  she  had  finished,  a  boarder  or  two, 
against  the  unwritten  law  of  the  house,  had  come 
downstairs.  Mrs.  Cortelyou,  a  thin  little  wisp  of  a 
widow,  was  in  the  rocker  in  the  bay-window,  Major 
Kinney,  fifty,  gray,  dried-up,  was  on  the  horsehair  sofa, 
watching  the  kitchen  door  over  his  paper.  Georgia, 
having  finished  her  telephoning,  had  come  in  to  drop 
idly  into  her  own  chair,  and  play  with  her  knives  and 
forks.  Miss  Lydia  Lord,  a  plain,  brisk  woman,  her 
upper  lip  darkened  with  hair,  her  figure  flat  and  square, 
like  a  boy's,  had  come  down  for  her  sister's  tray, 
and  was  talking  to  Susan  in  the  resolutely  cheerful 
tone  that  Susan  always  found  annoying,  when  she  was 
tired. 

"The  Keiths  are  off  for  Europe  again,  Susan, — 
dear  me !  isn't  it  lovely  for  the  people  who  can  do 
those  things!"  said  Miss  Lord,  who  was  governess  in 
a  very  wealthy  household,  and  liked  to  talk  of  the  city's 
prominent  families.  "Some  day  you  and  I  will  have 
to  find  a  million  dollars  and  run  away  for  a  year  in 
Italy!  I  wonder,  Sue,"  the  mild  banter  ceased,  "if  you 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  & 

could  get  Mary's  dinner?    I  hate  to  go  into  the  kitchen, 
they're  all  so  busy " 

Susan  took  the  tray,  and  went  through  the  swinging 
door,  and  into  the  kitchen.  Two  or  three  forms  were 
flitting  about  in  the  steam  and  smoke  and  flickering 
gas-light,  water  was  running,  gravy  hissing  on  the 
stove;  Alice,  the  one  poor  servant  the  establishment 
boasted,  was  attempting  to  lift  a  pile  of  hot  plates  with 
an  insufficient  cloth.  Susan  filled  her  tray  silently. 

"Anything  I  can  do,  Mary  Lou?" 

"Just  get  out  of  the  way,  lovey — that's  about  all — 
I  salted  that  once,  Ma.  If  you  don't  want  that  table, 
Sue — and  shut  the  door,  dear!  The  smoke " 

Susan  was  glad  to  get  out  of  the  kitchen,  and  in  a 
moment  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  Mary  Lou  came  into  the 
dining-room,  too,  and  Alice  rang  the  dinner  bell.  In- 
stantly the  boarders  streamed  downstairs,  found  their 
places  with  a  general  murmuring  of  mild  little  pleas- 
antries. Mrs.  Lancaster  helped  the  soup  rapidly  from 
a  large  tureen,  her  worried  eyes  moved  over  the  table- 
furnishings  without  pause. 

The  soup  was  well  cooled  before  the  place  next  to 
Susan  was  filled  by  a  tall  and  muscular  young  man, 
with  very  blue  eyes,  and  a  large  and  exceptionally 
charming  mouth.  The  youth  had  teeth  of  a  dazzling 
whiteness,  a  smile  that  was  a  bewildering  Irish  com- 
pound of  laughter  and  tears,  and  sooty  blue-black  hair 
that  fitted  his  head  like  a  thick  cap.  He  was  a  noisy 
lad,  this  William  Oliver,  opinionated,  excitable,  a  type 
that  in  its  bigness  and  broadness  seemed  almost  coarse, 
sometimes,  but  he  had  all  a  big  man's  tenderness  and 
sweetness,  and  everyone  liked  him.  Susan  and  he  quar- 
reled with  and  criticized  each  other,  William  imitat- 
ing her  little  affectations  of  speech  and  manner,  Susan 
reviling  his  transparent  and  absurd  ambitions,  but  they 
had  been  good  friends  for  years.  Young  Oliver's 
mother  had  been  Mrs.  Lancaster's  housekeeper  for  the 
most  prosperous  period  in  the  history  of  the  house, 
and  if  Susan  naturally  felt  that  the  son  of  a  working 


34  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

housekeeper  was  seriously  handicapped  in  a  social 
sense,  she  nevertheless  had  many  affectionate  memories 
of  his  mother,  as  the  kindly  dignified  "Nellie"  who  used 
to  amuse  them  so  delightfully  on  rainy  days.  Nellie 
had  been  long  dead,  now,  and  her  son  had  grown  up 
into  a  vigorous,  enthusiastic  young  person,  burning  his 
big  hands  with  experiments  in  physics  and  chemistry, 
reading  the  Scientific  American  late  into  the  night, 
until  his  broad  shoulders  were  threatened  with  a  per- 
manent stoop,  and  his  eager  eyes  blinked  wearily  at 
breakfast,  anxious  to  disprove  certain  accepted  theories, 
and  as  eager  to  introduce  others,  unaffected,  irreverent, 
and  irresistibly  buoyant.  William  could  not  hear  an 
opera  praised  without  dragging  Susan  off  to  gallery 
seats,  which  the  lady  frankly  characterized  as  "smelly," 
to  see  if  his  opinion  agreed  with  that  of  the  critics.  If  it 
did  not,  Susan  must  listen  to  long  dissertations  upon 
the  degeneracy  of  modern  music.  His  current  passion 
was  the  German  language,  which  he  was  studying  in 
odd  moments  so  that  he  might  translate  certain  scien- 
tific treatises  in  a  manner  more  to  the  scientific  mind. 

"Hello,  Susan,  darling!"  he  said  now,  as  he  slipped 
into  his  chair. 

"Hello,  heart's  delight!"  Susan  answered  com- 
posedly. 

"Well,  here — here — here !"  said  an  aged  gentleman 
who  was  known  for  no  good  reason  as  "Major," 
"what's  all  this?  You  young  folks  going  to  give  us  a 
wedding?" 

"Not  unless  I'm  chloroformed  first,  Major,"  Susan 
said,  briskly,  and  everybody  laughed  absently  at  the 
well-known  pleasantry.  They  were  all  accustomed  to 
the  absurdity  of  the  Major's  question,  and  far  more 
absorbed  just  now  in  watching  the  roast,  which  had 
just  come  on.  Another  pot-roast.  Everybody  sighed. 

"This  isn't  just  what  I  meant  to  give  you  good  peo- 
ple to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster  cheerfully,  as  she 
stood  up  to  carve,  "but  butchers  can  be  tyrants,  as  we 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  35 

all  know.  Mary  Lou,  put  vegetables  on  that  for  Mrs. 
Cortelyou." 

Mary  Lou  briskly  served  potatoes  and  creamed  car- 
rots and  summer  squash;  Susan  went  down  a  pyramid 
of  saucers  as  she  emptied  a  large  bowl  of  rather 
watery  tomato-sauce. 

"Well,  they  tell  us  meat  isn't  good  for  us  anyway!" 
piped  Mrs,  Kinney,  who  was  rheumatic,  and  always 
had  scrambled  eggs  for  dinner. 

" elegant  chicken,  capon,  probably,  and  on  Sun- 
days, turkey  all  winter  long!"  a  voice  went  on  in  the 
pause. 

"My  father  ate  meat  three  times  a  day,  all  his  life," 
said  Mrs.  Parker,  a  dark,  heavy  woman,  with  an  an- 
gelic-looking daughter  of  nineteen  beside  her,  "and 
papa  lived  to  be — let  me  see " 

"Ah,  here's  Jinny!"  Mrs.  Lancaster  stopped  carving 
to  receive  the  kiss  of  a  tall,  sweet-faced,  eye-glassed 
young  woman  who  came  in,  and  took  the  chair  next 
hers.  "Your  soup's  cold,  dear,"  said  she  tenderly. 

Miss  Virginia  Lancaster  looked  a  little  chilly;  her 
eyes,  always  weak,  were  watery  now  from  the  sharp 
evening  air,  and  her  long  nose  red  at  the  tip.  She 
wore  neat,  plain  clothes,  and  a  small  hat,  and  laid 
black  lisle  gloves  and  a  small  black  book  beside  her 
plate  as  she  sat  down. 

"Good  evening,  everybody!"  said  she,  pleasantly. 
"Late  comers  mustn't  complain,  Ma,  dear.  I  met 
Mrs.  Curry,  poor  thing,  coming  out  of  the  League 
rooms,  and  time  flew,  as  time  has  a  way  of  doing! 
She  was  telling  me  about  Harry,"  Miss  Virginia 
sighed,  peppering  her  soup  slowly.  "He  knew  he  was 
going,"  she  resumed,  "and  he  left  all  his  little 
things " 

"Gracious!    A  child  of  seven?"  Mrs.  Parker  said. 

"Oh,  yes!     She  said  there  was  no  doubt  of  it." 

The  conversation  turned  upon  death,  and  the  last 
acts  of  the  dying.  Loretta  Parker  related  the  death  of 
a  young  saint.  Miss  Lord,  pouring  a  little  lime  water 


36  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

into  most  of  her  food,  chewed  religiously,  her  eyes 
moving  from  one  speaker's  face  to  another. 

"I  saw  my  pearl  to-day,"  said  William  Oliver  to 
Susan,  under  cover  of  the  general  conversation. 

"Eleanor  Harkness?    Where?" 

"On  Market  Street, — the  little  darling!  Walking 
with  Anna  Carroll.  Going  to  the  boat." 

"Oh,  and  how's  Anna?" 

"Fine,  I  guess.  I  only  spoke  to  them  for  a  minute. 
I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  dear  little  laugh " 

"Oh,  Billy,  you  fatuous  idiot!    It'll  be  someone  else 


to-morrow." 


"It  will  not''  said  William,  without  conviction 
"No,  my  little  treasure  has  all  my  heart " 

"Honestly,"  said  Susan,  in  fine  scorn,  "it's  cat-sick- 
ening to  hear  you  go  on  that  way!  Especially  with 
that  snapshot  of  Anna  Carroll  still  in  your  watch !" 

"That  snapshot  doesn't  happen  to  be  still  in  my 
watch,  if  it's  any  business  of  yours!"  the  gentleman 
said,  sweetly. 

"Why,  it  is  too!    Let's  see  it,  then!" 

"No,  I  won't  let  you  see  it,  but  it's  not  there,  just 
the  same." 

"Oh,  Billy,  what  an  awful  lie!" 

"Susan!"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  partly  in  reproof, 
partly  to  call  her  niece's  attention  to  apple-pie  and 
tapioca  pudding. 

"Pudding,  please,  auntie."  Susan  subsided,  not  to 
break  forth  again  until  the  events  of  the  day  suddenly 
rushed  into  her  mind.  She  hastily  reviewed  them  for 
William's  benefit. 

"Well,  what  do  you  care?"  he  consoled  her  for  the 
•disappointment,  "here's  your  chance  to  bone  up  on  the 
segregating,  or  crediting,  or  whatever  you  call  it." 

"Yes,  and  then  have  someone  else  get  it!" 

"No  one  else  could  get  it,  if  you  understood  it  best!" 
he  said  impatiently. 

"That  shows  just  about  how  much  you  know  about 
the  office!"  Susan  retorted,  vexed  at  his  lack  of  sym- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  37 

pathy.  And  she  returned  to  her  pudding,  with  the  real 
cream  of  the  day's  news  yet  untold. 

A  few  moments  later  Billy  was  excused,  for  a  strug- 
gle with  German  in  the  night  school,  and  departed 
with  a  joyous,  "Auf  wiedersehen,  Fraulein  Brown!"  to 
Susan.  Such  boarders  as  desired  were  now  drinking 
their  choice  between  two  dark,  cool  fluids  that  might 
have  been  tea,  or  might  have  been  coffee,  or  might  have 
been  neither. 

"I  am  going  a  little  ahead  of  you  and  Georgie,  Ma," 
said  Virginia,  rising,  "for  I  want  to  see  Mamie  Evans 
about  tickets  for  Saturday." 

"Say,  listen,  Jin,  I'm  not  going  to-night,"  said  Miss 
Georgie,  hastily,  and  with  a  little  effort. 

"Why,  you  said  you  were,  Georgie !"  the  older  sister 
said  reproachfully.  "I  thought  you'd  bring  Ma." 

"Well,  I'm  not,  so  you  thought  wrong!"  Georgie  re- 
sponded airily. 

"Somebody  coming  to  see  you,  dear?"  asked  her 
mother. 

"I  don't  know — maybe."  Miss  Georgie  got  up> 
brushing  the  crumbs  from  her  lap. 

"Who  is  it,  dear?"  her  mother  pursued,  too  casually. 

"I  tell  you  it  may  not  be  anyone,  Ma !"  the  girl 
answered,  suddenly  irritated.  A  second  later  they 
heard  her  running  upstairs. 

"I  really  ought  to  be  early — I  promised  Miss 
Evans "  Virginia  murmured. 

"Yes,  I  know,  lovey,"  said  her  mother.  "So  you 
run  right  along.  I'll  just  do  a  few  little  things  here, 
and  come  right  after  you."  Virginia  was  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster's favorite  child,  now  she  kissed  her  warmly. 
"Don't  get  all  tired  out,  my  darling!"  said  she,  and 
when  the  girl  was  gone  she  added,  "Never  gives  one 
thought  to  herself!" 

"She's  an  angel!"  said  Loretta  Parker  fervently. 

"But  I  kind  of  hate  to  have  you  go  down  to  League 
Hall  alone,  Ma,"  said  Mary  Lou,  who  was  piling 
dishes  and  straightening  the  room,  with  Susan's  help. 


38  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Yes,  let  us  put  you  on  the  car,"  Susan  suggested. 

"I  declare  I  hate  to  have  you,"  the  older  woman 
hesitated. 

"Well,  I'll  change,'/  Mary  Lou  sighed  wearily.  "I'll 
get  right  into  my  things,  a  breath  of  air  will  do  us 
both  good,  won't  it,  Sue?" 

Presently  they  all  walked  to  the  McAllister  Street 
car.  Susan,  always  glad  to  be  out  at  night,  found  some- 
thing at  which  to  stop  in  every  shop  window;  she  fairly 
danced  along  at  her  cousin's  side,  on  the  way  back. 

"I  think  Fillmore  Street's  as  gay  as  Kearney,  don't 
you,  Mary  Lou?  Don't  you  just  hate  to  go  in? 
Don't  you  wish  something  exciting  would  happen?" 

"What  a  girl  you  are  for  wanting  excitement,  Sue ! 
I  want  to  get  back  and  see  that  Georgie  hasn't  shut 
everyone  out  of  the  parlor!"  worried  Mary  Lou. 

They  went  through  the  Basement  door  to  the  dining- 
room,  where  one  or  two  old  ladies  were  playing  soli- 
taire, on  the  red  table-cloth,  under  the  gas-light.  Susan 
drew  up  a  chair,  and  plunged  into  a  new  library  book. 
Mary  Lou,  returning  from  a  trip  upstairs,  said  noise- 
lessly, "Gone  walking!"  and  Susan  looked  properly  dis- 
gusted at  Georgie's  lack  of  propriety.  Mary  Lou  be- 
gan a  listless  game  of  patience,  with  a  shabby  deck  of 
cards  taken  from  the  sideboard  drawer,  presently  she 
grew  interested,  and  Susan  put  aside  her  book,  and 
began  to  watch  the  cards,  too.  The  old  ladies  chatted 
at  intervals  over  their  cards.  One  game  followed 
another,  Mary  Lou  prefacing  each  with  a  firm,  "Now, 
no  more  after  this  one,  Sue,"  and  a  mention  of  the 
time. 

It  was  like  many  of  their  evenings,  like  three  hundred 
evenings  a  year.  The  room  grew  warm,  the  gas-lights 
crept  higher  and  higher,  flared  noisily,  and  were  low- 
ered. Mary  Lou  unfastened  her  collar,  Susan  rum- 
pled her  hair.  The  conversation,  always  returning  to 
the  red  king  and  the  black  four-spot,  ranged  idly  here 
and  there.  Susan  observed  that  she  must  write  some 
letters,  and  meant  to  take  a  hot  bath  and  go  early 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  39 

to  bed.  But  she  sat  on  and  on;  the  cards,  by  the 
smallest  percentage  of  amusement,  still  held  them. 

At  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  Virginia  came  in, 
bright-eyed  and  chilly,  eager  to  talk  of  the  lecture. 
Mrs.  Lancaster  loosened  her  coat,  laid  aside  the  mis- 
erable little  strip  of  fur  she  always  wore  about  her 
throat,  and  hung  her  bonnet,  with  its  dangling  widow's 
veil,  over  the  back  of  her  deep  chair.  She  drew  Susan 
down  to  sit  on  her  knee.  "All  the  baby  auntie's  got," 
she  said.  Georgie  presently  came  downstairs,  her 
caller,  "that  fresh  kid  I  met  at  Sallie's,"  had  gone,  and 
she  was  good-natured  again.  Mary  Lou  produced  the 
forgotten  bag  of  candy ;  they  all  munched  it  and  talked. 
The  old  ladies  had  gone  upstairs  long  ago. 

All  conversations  led  Mrs.  Lancaster  into  the  past, 
the  girls  could  almost  have  reconstructed  those  long- 
ago,  prosperous  years,  from  hearing  her  tell  of  them. 

" Papa  fairly  glared  at  the  man,"  she  was  say- 
ing presently,  won  to  an  old  memory  by  the  chance 
meeting  of  an  old  friend  to-night,  "I  can  see  his  face 
this  day!  I  said,  'Why,  papa,  I'd  just  as  soon  have 
these  rooms!'  But,  no.  Papa  had  paid  for  the  best, 
and  he  was  going  to  have  the  best " 

"That  was  Papa !"  laughed  his  daughters. 

"That  was  Papa !"  his  widow  smiled  and  sighed. 
"Well.  The  first  thing  I  knew,  there  was  the  pro- 
prietor,— you  may  imagine!  Papa  says,  'Will  you 
kindly  tell  me  why  I  have  to  bring  my  wife,  a  delicate, 
refined  Southern  woman '  ' 

"And  he  said  beautiful,  too,  Ma !" 

Mrs.  Lancaster  laughed  mildly. 

"Poor  papa !  He  was  so  proud  of  my  looks !  'Will 
you  tell  me,'  he  says,  'why  I  have  to  put  my  wife  into 
rooms  like  these?'  'Sir,'  the  landlord  says,  'I  have  only 
one  better  suite '  ' 

"Bridal  suite,  he  said,  Ma !" 

"Yes,  he  did.  The  regular  bridal  suite.  I  wasn't 
a  bride  then,  that  was  after  poor  George  was  born, 
but  I  had  a  very  high  color,  and  I  always  dressed  very 


40  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

elegantly.  And  I  had  a  good  figure,  your  father*? 
two  hands  could  meet  around  my  waist.  Anyway,  then 
Papa — dear  me,  how  it  all  comes  back! — Papa  says, 
fairly  shouting,  'Well,  why  can't  I  have  that  suite?' 
'Oh,  sir,'  the  landlord  says,  'a  Mr.  George  Lancaster 
has  engaged  that  for  his  wife,  and  they  say  that  he's 

a  man  who  will  get  what  he  pays  for '  '      Another 

mild  laugh  interrupted  the  narrative. 

"Didn't you  nearly  die,  Ma?" 

"Well,  my  dear!  If  you  could  have  seen  the  man's 
face  when  Papa — and  how  well  he  did  this  sort  of 
thing,  deary  me ! — whips  out  a  card " 

They  all  laughed  merrily.  Then  Mrs.  Lancaster 
sighed. 

"Poor  Papa,  I  don't  know  what  he  would  have  done 
if  he  could  have  seen  us  to-day,"  she  said.  "It's  just 
as  well  we  couldn't  see  ahead,  after  all!" 

"Gee,  but  I'd  like  to  see  what's  coming,"  Susan 
said  thoughtfully. 

"Bed  is  coming  next!"  Mary  Lou  said,  putting  her 
arm  about  the  girl.  Upstairs  they  all  filed  sleepily, 
lowering  the  hall  gases  as  they  went.  Susan  yawningly 
kissed  her  aunt  and  Virginia  good-night,  on  the  second 
floor,  where  they  had  a  dark  and  rather  colorless 
room  together.  She  and  the  other  girls  went  on  up 
to  the  third-story  room,  where  they  spent  nearly  an- 
other hour  in  dilatory  undressing.  Susan  hesitated 
again  over  the  thought  of  a  hot  bath,  decided 
against  it,  decided  against  even  the  usual  brushing  of 
her  hair  to-night,  and  sprang  into  bed  to  lie  flat  on  her 
tired  back,  watching  Mary  Lou  make  up  Georgie's 
bed  with  dislocating  yawns,  and  Georgie,  wincing  as 
she  put  her  hair  into  tight  "kids."  Susan  slept  in  a. 
small  space  bounded  by  the  foot  of  the  bed,  the  head 
of  the  bed,  the  wall,  and  her  cousin's  large  person, 
and,  as  Mary  Lou  generally  made  the  bed  in  the  morn- 
ing by  flapping  the  covers  back  v/ithout  removing  them, 
they  were  apt  to  feel  and  smell  unaired,  and  to  be 
rumpled  and  loose  at  the  foot.  Susan  could  not  turn 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  41 

over  in  the  night  without  arousing  Mary  Lou,  who 
would  mutter  a  terrified  "What  is  it — what  is  it?"  for 
the  next  ten  minutes.  Years  before,  Susan,  a  timid, 
country-bred  child,  had  awakened  many  a  time  in  the 
night,  frightened  by  the  strange  city  noises,  or  the 
fire-bells,  and  had  lain,  with  her  mouth  dry,  and  her 
little  heart  thundering,  through  lessening  agonies  of 
fright.  But  she  never  liked  to  awake  Mary  Lou.  Now 
she  was  used  to  the  city,  and  used  to  the  lumpy,  ill-made 
bed  as  well;  indeed  Susan  often  complained  that  she 
fell  asleep  too  fast,  that  she  wanted  to  lie  awake  and 
think. 

But  to-night  she  lay  awake  for  a  long  time.  Susan 
was  at  twenty-one  no  more  than  a  sweet  and  sunny 
child,  after  all.  She  had  accepted  a  rather  cheerless 
destiny  with  all  the  extraordinary  philosophy  and  pa- 
tience of  a  child,  thankful  for  small  pleasures,  endur- 
ing small  discomforts  gaily.  No  situation  was  too 
hopeless  for  Susan's  laughter,  and  no  prospect  too  dark 
for  her  bright  dreams.  Now,  to-night  for  the  first 
time,  the  tiny  spark  of  a  definite  ambition  was  added 
to  this  natural  endowment.  She  would  study  the 
work  of  the  office  systematically,  she  would  be  pro- 
moted, she  would  be  head  girl  some  day,  some  day 
very  soon,  and  obliged,  as  head  girl,  to  come  in  and 
out  of  Mr.  Peter  Coleman's  office  constantly.  And 
by  the  dignity  and  gravity  of  her  manner,  and  her  per- 
sonal neatness,  and  her  entire  indifference  to  his  charms 
— always  neat  little  cuffs  and  collars  basted  in  her 
tailor-made  suit — always  in  her  place  on  the  stroke  of 
half-past  eight 

Susan  began  to  get  sleepy.  She  turned  over  cau- 
tiously, and  bunched  her  pillow  comfortably  under  one 
cheek.  Hazy  thoughts  wheeled  through  her  tired 
brain.  Thorny — the  man  on  the  dummy — the  black 
king 


CHAFFER    III 

AMONG  Mrs.  Lancaster's  reminiscences  Susan  had 
heard  none  more  often  than  the  one  in  which  the  first 
appearance  of  Billy  Oliver  and  his  mother  in  the 
boarding-house  was  described.  Mrs.  Oliver  had  been 
newly  widowed  then,  and  had  the  round-faced,  square- 
shouldered  little  Billy  to  support,  in  a  city  that  was 
strange  and  unfriendly.  She  had  gone  to  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster's intending  merely  to  spend  a  day  or  two,  until 
the  right  work  and  the  right  home  for  herself  and 
Billy  should  be  found. 

"It  happened  to  be  a  bad  time  for  me,"  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster would  say,  recalling  the  event.  "My  cook  had 
gone,  the  house  was  full,  and  I  had  a  quinsy  sore 
throat.  But  I  managed  to  find  her  a  room,  and  Alfie 
and  George  carried  in  a  couch  for  the  little  boy.  She 
borrowed  a  broom,  I  remember,  and  cleaned  out  the 
room  herself.  I  explained  how  things  were  with  me, 
and  that  I  ought  to  have  been  on  my  back  then!  She 
was  the  cleanest  soul  I  ever  saw,  she  washed  out  the 
very  bureau  drawers,  and  she  took  the  little  half-cur- 
tain down,  it  was  quite  black, — we  used  to  keep  that 
window  open  a  good  deal.  Well,  and  we  got  to  talk- 
ing, and  she  told  me  about  her  husband's  death,  he 
was  a  surveyor,  and  a  pretty  clever  man,  I  guess.  Poor 

thing,  she  burst  right  out  crying " 

"And  you  kept  feeling  sicker  and  sicker,  Ma." 
"I  began  to  feel  worse  and  worse,  yes.    And  at  about 
four  o'clock  I  sent  Ceely, — you  remember  Ceely,  Mary 
Lou! — for   the    doctor.      She    was    getting   dinner — 
everything  was  upset!" 

"Was  that  the  day  I  broke  the  pitchers,  Ma?" 
"No.    That  was  another  day.    Well,  when  the  doc- 

42 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  43 

tor  came,  he  said  bed.  I  was  too  wretched  then  to  say 
boo  to  a  goose,  and  I  simply  tumbled  in.  And  I 
wasn't  out  of  bed  for  five  weeks !" 

"Ma!" 

"Not  for  five  weeks.  Well.  But  that  first  night, 
somebody  knocked  at  my  door,  and  who  should  it  be 
but  my  little  widow!  with  her  nice  little  black  gown 
on,  and  a  white  apron.  She'd  brought  me  some  gruel, 
and  she  began  to  hang  up  my  things  and  straighten 
the  room.  I  asked  about  dinner,  and  she  said  she  had 
helped  Ceely  and  that  it  was  all  right.  The  relief! 
And  from  that  moment  she  took  hold,  got  a  new  cook, 
cleaned  house,  managed  everything!  And  how  she 
adored  that  boy!  I  don't  think  that,  in  the  seven 
years  that  she  was  with  me,  Nellie  ever  spent  an 
evening  away  from  him.  Poor  Nellie!  And  a  witty, 
sweet  woman  she  was,  too,  far  above  that  sort  of  work. 
She  was  taking  the  public  library  examinations  when 
she  died.  Nellie  would  have  gone  a  long  way.  She 
was  a  real  little  lady.  Billy  must  be  more  like  his 
father,  I  imagine." 

"Oh,  now,  Ma!"  There  was  always  someone  to 
defend  Billy.  "Look  how  good  and  steady  Billy  is!" 

"Steady,  yes,  and  a  dear,  dear  boy,  as  we  all  know. 
But — but  very  different  from  what  I  would  wish  a 
son  of  mine  to  be!"  Mrs.  Lancaster  would  say  regret- 
fully. 

Susan  agreed  with  her  aunt  that  it  was  a  great  pity 
that  a  person  of  Billy's  intelligence  should  voluntarily 
grub  away  in  a  dirty  iron  foundry  all  the  days  of  his 
youth,  associating  with  the  commonest  types  of  labor- 
ing men.  A  clerkship,  an  agency,  a  hundred  refined 
employments  in  offices  would  have  seemed  more  suit- 
able, or  even  a  professional  vocation  of  some  sort. 
But  she  had  in  all  honesty  to  admit  that  Alfred's  dis- 
inclination to  do  anything  at  all,  and  Alfred's  bad 
habits,  made  Billy's  industry  and  cleanness  and  tem- 
perance a  little  less  grateful  to  Mrs.  Lancaster  than 
they  might  otherwise  have  been. 


44  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Alfred  tried  a  great  many  positions,  and  lost  them 
all  because  he  could  not  work,  and  could  not  refrain 
from  drinking.  The  women  of  his  family  called  Alfred 
nothing  more  unkind  than  "unfortunate,"  and  endured 
the  drunkenness,  the  sullen  aftermath,  the  depression 
while  a  new  job  was  being  found,  and  Alfie's  insuffer- 
able complacency  when  the  new  job  was  found,  with 
tireless  patience  and  gentleness.  Mary  Lou  carried 
Alfie's  breakfast  upstairs  to  his  bed,  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings, Mrs.  Lancaster  often  gave  him  an  early  dinner, 
and  hung  over  him  adoringly  while  he  ate  it,  because 
he  so  hated  to  dine  with  the  boarders.  Susan  loaned 
him  money,  Virginia's  prayers  were  all  for  him,  and 
Georgie  laughed  at  his  jokes  and  quoted  him  as  if  he 
had  been  the  most  model  of  brothers.  How  much 
they  realized  of  Alfie's  deficiencies,  how  important  the 
matter  seemed  to  them,  even  Susan  could  not  guess. 
Mrs.  Lancaster  majestically  forbade  any  discussion  of 
Alfie.  "Many  a  boy  has  his  little  weakness  in  early 
youth,"  she  said,  "Alfie  will  come  out  all  right!" 

She  had  the  same  visionary  optimism  in  regarding 
her  daughters'  futures.  The  girls  were  all  to  marry, 
of  course,  and  marry  well,  far  above  their  present  sta- 
tion, indeed. 

"Somehow  I  always  think  of  Mary  Lou's  husband 
as  a  prominent  officer,  or  a  diplomat,"  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter would  say.  "Not  necessarily  very  rich,  but  with  a 
comfortable  private  income.  Mary  Lou  makes 
friends  very  easily,  she  likes  to  make  a  good  appear- 
ance, she  has  a  very  gracious  manner,  and  with 
her  fine  figure,  and  her  lovely  neck,  she  would  make  a 
very  handsome  mistress  for  a  big  home — yes,  indeed 
you  would,  dear!  Where  many  a  woman  would  want 
to  run  away  and  hide,  Mary  Lou  would  be  quite  in  her 
element " 

"Well,  one  thing,"  Mary  Lou  would  say  modestly, 
"I'm  never  afraid  to  meet  strangers,  and,  don't  you 
know  you've  spoken  of  it,  Ma?  I  never  have  any 
trouble  in  talking  to  them.  Do  you  remember  that 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  45 

woman  in  the  grocery  that  night,  Georgie,  who  said 
she  thought  I  must  have  traveled  a  great  deal,  I  had 
such  an  easy  way  of  speaking?  And  I'd  love  to  dress 
every  night  for  dinner." 

"Of  course  you  would!"  her  mother  always  said 
approvingly.  "Now,  Georgie,"  she  would  pursue,  "is 
different  again.  Where  Mary  Lou  only  wants  the 
very  nicest  people  about  her,  Georgie  cares  a  good  deal 
more  for  the  money  and  having  a  good  time!" 

"The  man  I  marry  has  got  to  make  up  his  mind  that 
I'm  going  to  keep  on  the  go,"  Georgie  would  admit, 
with  an  independent  toss  of  her  head. 

"But  you  wouldn't  marry  just  for  that,  dear?  Love 
must  come,  too." 

"Oh,  the  love  would  come  fast  enough,  if  the  money 
was  there !"  Georgie  would  declare  naughtily. 

"I  don't  like  to  have  you  say  that  even  in  fun,  dear! 
„  .  .  Now  Jinny,"  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  would  shake  her 
head,  "sometimes  I  think  Jinny  would  be  almost  too 
hard  upon  any  man,"  she  would  say,  lovingly.  "There 
are  mighty  few  in  this  world  good  enough  for  her.  And 
I  would  certainly  warn  any  man,"  she  usually  added 
seriously,  "that  Jinny  is  far  finer  and  more  particular 
than  most  women.  But  a  good,  good  man,  older  than 
she,  who  could  give  her  a  beautiful  home " 

"I  would  love  to  begin,  on  my  wedding-day,  to  do 
some  beautiful,  big,  charitable  thing  every  day,"  Vir- 
ginia herself  would  say  eagerly.  "I  would  like  to  be 
known  far  and  wide  as  a  woman  of  immense  charities. 
I'd  have  only  one  handsome  street  suit  or  two,  each 
season,  beside  evening  dresses,  and  people  would  get 
to  know  me  by  sight,  and  bring  their  babies  up  to 

me  in  the  street "  Her  weak,  kind  eyes  always 

watered  at  the  picture. 

"But  Mama  is  not  ready  yet  to  let  you  go!"  her 
mother  would  say  jealously.  "We'll  hope  that  Mr. 
Right  will  be  a  long  time  arriving!" 

Then  it  was  Susan's  turn. 

"And  I  want  some  fine,   good  man  to  make  my 


46  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Sue  happy,  some  day,"  her  aunt  often  said,  affection- 
ately. Susan  writhed  in  spirit  under  the  implication 
that  no  fine,  good  man  yet  had  desired  the  honor; 
she  had  a  girl's  desire  that  her  affairs — or  the  absence 
of  affairs — of  the  heart  should  not  be  discussed.  Susan 
felt  keenly  the  fact  that  she  had  never  had  an  offer  of 
marriage;  her  one  consolation,  in  this  humiliation,  was 
that  no  one  but  herself  could  be  quite  sure  of  it.  Boys 
had  liked  her,  confided  in  her,  made  her  small  Christ- 
mas presents, — just  how  other  girls  led  them  from 
these  stages  to  the  moment  of  a  positive  declaration, 
she  often  wondered.  She  knew  that  she  was  attrac- 
tive to  most  people;  babies  and  old  men  and  women, 
servants  and  her  associates  in  the  office,  strangers  on 
ferryboats  and  sick  people  in  hospitals  alike  responded 
to  her  friendliness  and  gaiety.  But  none  of  these  was 
marriageable,  of  course,  and  the  moment  Susan  met  a 
person  who  was,  a  subtle  change  crept  over  her  whole 
personality,  veiled  the  bright  charm,  made  the  friend- 
liness stiff,  the  gaiety  forced.  Susan,  like  all  other  girls, 
was  not  herself  with  the  young  unmarried  men  of  her 
acquaintance;  she  was  too  eager  to  be  exactly  what 
they  supposedly  wanted  her  to  be.  She  felt  vaguely 
the  utter  unnaturalness  of  this,  without  ever  being 
able  to  analyze  it.  Her  attitude,  the  attitude  of  all 
her  sex,  was  too  entirely  false  to  make  an  honest  analy- 
sis possible.  Susan,  and  her  cousins,  and  the  girls  in 
the  office,  rather  than  reveal  their  secret  longings  to 
be  married,  would  have  gone  cheerfully  to  the  stake. 
Nevertheless,  all  their  talk  was  of  men  and  marriage, 
and  each  girl  innocently  appraised  every  man  she  met, 
and  was  mentally  accepting  or  refusing  an  offer  of 
marriage  from  him  before  she  had  known  him  five 
minutes. 

Susan  viewed  the  single  state  of  her  three  pretty 
cousins  with  secret  uneasiness.  Georgie  always  said 
that  she  had  refused  "dozens  of  fellows,'*  meeting  her 
mother's  occasional  mild  challenge  of  some  specific 
statement  with  an  unanswerable  "of  course  you  didn't 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  47 

know,  for  I  never  told  you,  Ma."  And  Virginia  liked 
to  bemoan  the  fact  that  so  many  nice  men  seemed  in- 
clined to  fall  in  love  with  herself,  a  girl  who  gave 
absolutely  no  thought  to  such  things  at  all.  Mrs. 
Lancaster  supported  Virginia's  suspicions  by  memories 
of  young  men  who  had  suddenly  and  mysteriously  ap- 
peared, to  ask  her  to  accept  them  as  boarders,  and 
young  attorneys  who  had  their  places  in  church 
changed  to  the  pews  that  surrounded  the  Lancaster 
pew.  But  Susan  dismissed  these  romantic  vapors,  and 
in  her  heart  held  Mary  Lou  in  genuine  admiration,  be- 
cause Mary  Lou  had  undoubtedly  and  indisputably  had 
a  real  lover,  years  ago. 

Mary  Lou  loved  to  talk  of  Ferd  Eastman  still; 
his  youth,  his  manly  charms,  his  crossing  an  empty 
ball-room  floor,  on  the  memorable  evening  of  their 
meeting,  especially  to  be  introduced  to  her,  and  to 
tell  her  that  brown  hair  was  his  favorite  color  for 
hair.  After  that  the  memories,  if  still  fondly  cher- 
ished, were  less  bright.  Mary  Lou  had  been  "per- 
fectly wretched,"  she  had  "cried  for  nights  and  nights" 
at  the  idea  of  leaving  Ma ;  Ma  had  fainted  frequently. 
*'Ma  made  it  really  hard  for  me,"  said  Mary  Lou. 
Ma  was  also  held  to  blame  for  not  reconciling  the 
young  people  after  the  first  quarrel.  Ma  might  have 
sent  for  Ferd.  Mary  Lou,  of  course,  could  do  noth- 
ing but  weep. 

Poor  Mary  Lou's  weeping  soon  had  good  cause. 
Ferd  rushed  away,  rushed  into  another  marriage,  with 
an  heiress  and  a  beauty,  as  it  happened,  and  Mary 
Lou  had  only  the  dubious  consolation  of  a  severe 
illness. 

After  that,  she  became  cheerful,  mild,  unnecessary 
Mary  Lou,  doing  a  little  bit  of  everything  about  the 
house,  appreciated  by  nobody.  Ferd  and  his  wife  were 
the  great  people  of  their  own  little  town,  near  Virginia 
City,  and  after  a  while  Mary  Lou  had  several  pictures 
of  their  little  boy  to  treasure, — Robbie  with  stiff  curls 
falling  over  a  lace  collar,  and  plaid  kilts,  in  a  swing, 


48  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

and  Robbie  in  velvet  knickerbockers,  on  a  velocU 
pede. 

The  boarding-house  had  a  younger  affair  than  Mary 
Lou's  just  now  in  the  attachment  felt  for  lovely  Loretta 
Parker  by  a  young  Mission  doctor,  Joseph  O'Connor. 
Susan  did  not  admire  the  gentleman  very  much,  with  his 
v/ell-trimmed  little  beard,  and  his  throaty  little  voice, 
but  she  could  not  but  respect  the  dreamy  and  indif- 
ferent Loretta  for  his  unquestionable  ardor.  Loretta 
wanted  to  enter  a  convent,  to  her  mother's  bitter 
anguish,  and  Susan  once  convulsed  Georgie  by  the 
remark  that  she  thought  Joe  O'Connor  would  make  a 
cute  nun,  himself. 

"But  think  of  sacrificing  that  lovely  beard!"  said 
Georgie. 

"Oh,  you  and  I  could  treasure  it,  Georgie!  Love's 
token,  don't  you  know?" 

Loretta's  affair  was  of  course  extremely  interesting 
to  everyone  at  Mrs.  Lancaster's,  as  were  the  various 
"cases"  that  Georgie  continually  talked  of,  and  the 
changing  stream  of  young  men  that  came  to  see  her 
night  after  night.  But  also  interesting  were  all  the 
other  lives  that  were  shut  up  here  together,  the  varied 
forms  which  sickness  and  money-trouble  can  take  for 
the  class  that  has  not  learned  to  be  poor.  Little  pre- 
tenses, timid  enjoyments  and  mild  extravagances  were 
all  overshadowed  by  a  poverty  real  enough  to  show 
them  ever  more  shadowy  than  they  were.  Susan  grew 
up  in  an  atmosphere  where  a  lost  pair  of  overshoes, 
or  a  dentist's  bill,  or  a  counterfeit  half-dollar,  was  a 
real  tragedy.  She  was  well  used  to  seeing  reddened 
eyes,  and  hearing  resigned  sighs  at  the  breakfast  table, 
without  ever  knowing  what  little  unforeseen  calamity 
had  caused  them.  Every  door  in  the  dark  hallways 
shut  in  its  own  little  story  of  suffering  and  privation. 
Susan  always  thought  of  second-floor  alcoved  bedrooms 
ns  filled  with  the  pungent  fumes  of  Miss  Beattie's 
asthma  powder,  and  of  back  rooms  as  redolent  of  hot 
kerosene  and  scorched  woolen,  from  the  pressing  of 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  49 

old  Mr.  Keane's  suits,  by  Mrs.  Keane.  She  could 
have  identified  with  her  eyes  shut  any  room  in  the 
house.  A  curious  chilliness  lurked  in  the  halls,  from 
August  to  May,  and  an  odor  compounded  of  stale  ciga- 
rette smoke,  and  carbolic  acid,  and  coal-gas,  and  dust. 

Those  women  in  the  house  who  did  not  go  to  business 
every  day  generally  came  down  to  the  breakfast  table 
very  much  as  they  rose  from  bed.  Limp  faded  wrap- 
pers and  "Juliet"  slippers  were  the  only  additions 
made  to  sleeping  wear.  The  one  or  two  men  of  the 
house,  with  Susan  and  Jane  Beattie  and  Lydia  Lord, 
had  breakfasted  and  gone  long  before  these  ladies 
drifted  downstairs.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Parker  and 
Loretta  made  an  early  trip  to  Church,  but  even  then 
they  wore  only  long  cloaks  over  very  informal  attire, 
and  joined  the  others,  in  wrappers,  upon  their  return. 

Loitering  over  coffee  and  toast,  in  the  sunny  dining- 
room,  the  morning  wasted  away.  The  newspapers 
were  idly  discussed,  various  scraps  of  the  house  gossip 
went  the  rounds.  Many  a  time,  before  her  entrance 
into  the  business  world,  Susan  had  known  this  pleasant 
idleness  to  continue  until  ten  o'clock,  until  eleven 
o'clock,  while  the  room,  between  the  stove  inside  and 
the  winter  sunshine  outside,  grew  warmer  and  warmer, 
and  the  bedrooms  upstairs  waited  in  every  stage  of 
appalling  disorder  and  confusion. 

Nowadays  Susan  ran  downstairs  just  before  eight 
o'clock,  to  gulp  down  her  breakfast,  with  one  eye  on 
the  clock.  The  clatter  of  a  cable  car  passing  the  cor- 
ner meant  that  Susan  had  just  time  to  pin  on  her  hat, 
seize  her  gloves  and  her  lunch,  and  catch  the  next 
cable-car.  She  flashed  through  the  dreary  little  en- 
trance yard,  past  other  yards,  past  the  bakery,  and 
took  her  seat  on  the  dummy  breathless  with  her  hurry, 
exhilarated  by  the  morning  freshness  of  the  air,  and 
filled  with  happy  expectation  for  the  new  day. 

On  the  Monday  morning  that  Mr.  Peter  Coleman 
made  his  appearance  as  a  member  of  the  Front  Office 


50  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

staff,  Susan  Brown  was  the  first  girl  to  reach  the  office. 
This  was  usually  the  case,  but  to-day  Susan,  realizing 
that  the  newcomer  would  probably  be  late,  wished  that 
she  had  the  shred  of  an  excuse  to  be  late  herself,  to 
have  an  entrance,  as  it  were.  Her  plain  suit  had  been 
well  brushed,  and  the  coat  was  embellished  by  a  fresh, 
dainty  collar  and  wide  cuffs  of  white  linen.  Susan 
had  risen  early  to  wash  and  press  these,  and  they  were 
very  becoming  to  her  fresh,  unaffected  beauty.  But 
they  must,  of  course,  be  hung  in  the  closet,  and  Susan, 
taking  her  place  at  her  desk,  looked  quite  as  usual, 
except  for  the  spray  of  heliotrope  pinned  against  her 
lavender  shirtwaist. 

The  other  girls  were  earlier  than  was  customary, 
there  was  much  laughing  and  chatting  as  desks  were 
dusted,  and  inkwells  filled  for  the  day.  Susan,  watch- 
ing soberly  from  her  corner,  saw  that  Miss  Cottle  was 
wearing  her  best  hat,  that  Miss  Murray  had  on  the 
silk  gown  she  usually  saved  for  Saturdays,  that 
Thorny's  hair  was  unusually  crimped  and  puffed,  and 
that  the  Kirks  were  wearing  coquettish  black  silk 
aprons,  with  pink  and  blue  bows.  Susan's  face  began 
to  burn.  Her  hand  unobtrusively  stole  to  her  helio- 
trope, which  fell,  a  moment  later,  a  crushed  little 
fragrant  lump,  into  her  waste-basket.  Presently  she 
went  into  the  coat  closet. 

"Remind  me  to  take  these  to  the  French  Laundry  at 
noon,"  said  Susan,  pausing  before  Thorny's  desk,  on 
her  way  back  to  her  own,  with  a  tight  roll  of  linen  in 
her  hand.  "I  left  'em  on  my  coat  from  yesterday. 
They're  filthy." 

"Sure,  but  why  don't  you  do  'em  yourself,  Susan, 
and  save  your  two  bits?" 

"Well,  maybe  I  will.     I  usually  do."  Susan  yawned. 

"Still  sleepy?" 

"Dying  for  sleep.  I  went  with  my  cousin  to  St. 
Mary's  last  night,  to  hear  that  Mission  priest.  He's 
a  wonder." 

"Not  for  me  I     I've  not  been  inside  a  church  for 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  51 

years.  I  had  my  friend  last  night.  Say,  Susan,  has 
he  come?" 

"Has  who  come?" 

"Oh,  you  go  to,  Susan!    Young  Coleman." 

"Oh,  sure!"  Susan's  eyes  brightened  intelligently. 
"That's  so,  he  was  coming  down  to-day,  wasn't  he?" 

"Girls,"  said  Miss  Thornton,  attracting  the  atten- 
tion of  the  entire  room,  "what  do  you  know  about 
Susan  Brown's  trying  to  get  away  with  it  that  she's 
forgotten  about  Peter  Coleman!" 

"Oh,  Lord,  what  a  bluff!"  somebody  said,  for  the 
crowd. 

"I  don't  see  why  it's  a  bluff,"  said  Susan  hardily, 
back  at  her  own  desk,  and  turning  her  light  on,  full 
above  her  bright,  innocent  face.  "I  intended  to  wear 
my  grandfather's  gray  uniform  and  my  aunt's  widow's 
veil  to  make  an  impression  on  him,  and  you  see  I 
didn't!" 

"Oh,  Susan,  you're  awful!"  Miss  Thornton  said, 
through  the  general  shocked  laughter.  "You  oughtn't 
say  things  like  that,"  Miss  Garvey  remonstrated.  "It's 
awful  bad  luck.  Mamma  had  a  married  cousin  in 
Detroit  and  she  put  on  a  widow's  veil  for  fun " 

At  ten  o'clock  a  flutter  went  through  the  office. 
Young  Mr.  Coleman  was  suddenly  to  be  seen,  standing 
beside  Mr.  Brauer  at  his  high  desk.  He  was  excep- 
tionally big  and  broad,  handsome  and  fresh  looking, 
with  a  look  of  careful  grooming  and  dressing  that 
set  off  his  fine  head  and  his  fine  hands;  he  wore  a  very 
smart  light  suit,  and  carried  well  the  affectation  of 
lavender  tie  and  handkerchief  and  hose,  and  an  opal 
scarf-pin. 

He  seemed  to  be  laughing  a  good  deal  over  his  new 
work,  but  finally  sat  down  to  a  pile  of  bills,  and  did 
not  interrupt  Mr.  Brauer  after  that  oftener  than  ten 
times  a  minute.  Susan  met  his  eye,  as  she  went  along 
the  deck,  but  he  did  not  remember  her,  or  was  too 
confused  to  recognize  her  among  the  other  girls,  and 


52  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

they  did  not  bow.  She  was  very  circumspect  and  very 
dignified  for  a  week  or  two,  always  busy  when  Peter 
Coleman  came  into  Front  Office,  and  unusually  neat  in 
appearance.  Miss  Murray  sat  next  to  him  on  the 
car  one  morning,  and  they  chatted  for  fifteen  minutes; 
Miss  Thornton  began  to  quote  him  now  and  then; 
Miss  Kirk,  as  credit  clerk,  spent  at  least  a  morning 
a  week  in  Mr.  Brauer's  office,  three  feet  away  from 
Mr.  Coleman,  and  her  sister  tripped  in  there  now  and 
then  on  real  or  imagined  errands. 

But  Susan  bided  her  time.  And  one  afternoon,  late 
in  October,  returning  early  to  the  office,  she  found  Mr. 
Coleman  loitering  disconsolately  about  the  deck. 

"Excuse  me,  Miss  Brown,"  said  he,  clearing  his 
throat.  He  had,  of  course,  noticed  this  busy,  absorbed 
young  woman. 

Susan  stopped,  attentive,  unsmiling. 

"Brauer,"  complained  the  young  man,  "has  gone  off 
and  locked  my  hat  in  his  office.  I  can't  go  to  lunch.'* 

"Why  didn't  you  walk  through  Front  Office?"  said 
Susan,  leading  the  way. so  readily  and  so  sedately,  that 
the  gentleman  was  instantly  put  in  the  position  of  hav- 
ing addressed  her  on  very  slight  provocation. 

"This  inner  door  is  always  unlocked,"  she  explained, 
with  maternal  gentleness. 

Peter  Coleman  colored. 

"I  see — I  am  a  bally  ass!"  he  said,  laughing. 

"You  ought  to  know,"  Susan  conceded  politely. 
And  suddenly  her  dimples  were  in  view,  her  blue  eyes 
danced  as  they  met  his,  and  she  laughed  too. 

This  was  a  rare  opportunity,  the  office  was  empty, 
Susan  knew  she  looked  well,  for  she  had  just  brushed 
her  hair  and  powdered  her  nose.  She  cast  about  des- 
perately in  her  mind  for  something — anything! — to 
keep  the  conversation  going.  She  had  often  thought 
of  the  words  in  which  she  would  remind  him  of  their 
former  meeting. 

"Don't  think  I'm  quite  as  informal  as  this,  Mr.  Cole- 
man, you  and  I  have  been  properly  introduced,  you 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  55 

know!  I'm  not  entirely  flattered  by  having  you  forget 
me  so  completely,  Mr.  Coleman!" 

Before  she  could  choose  either  form,  he  said  it  him- 
self. 

"Say,  look  here,  look  here — didn't  my  uncle  intro- 
duce us  once,  on  a  car,  or  something?  Doesn't  he 
know  your  mother?" 

"My  mother's  dead,"  said  Susan  primly.  But  so 
irresistible  was  the  well  of  gaiety  bubbling  up  in  her 
heart  that  she  made  the  statement  mirthful. 

"Oh,  gosh,  I  do  beg  your  pardon "  the  man 

stammered.  They  both,  although  Susan  was  already 
ashamed  of  herself,  laughed  violently  again. 

"Your  uncle  knows  my  aunt,"  she  said  presently, 
coldly  and  unsmilingly. 

"That's  it,"  he  said,  relieved.  "Quite  a  French 
sentence,  'does  the  uncle  know  the  aunt'  ?"  he  grinned. 

"Or  'Has  the  governess  of  the  gardener  some  meat 
and  a  pen'?"  gurgled  Susan.  And  again,  and  more 
merrily,  they  laughed  together. 

"Lord,  didn't  you  hate  French?"  he  asked  confi- 
dentially. 

"Oh,  hate  it!"  Susan  had  never  had  a  French  lesson. 

There  was  a  short  pause — a  longer  pause.  Sud- 
denly both  spoke. 

"I  beg  your  pardon ?" 

"No,  you.    You  were  first." 

"Oh,  no,  you.    What  were  you  going  to  say?" 

"I  wasn't  going  to  say  anything.  I  was  just  going 
to  say — I  was  going  to  ask  how  that  pretty,  motherly 
aunt  of  yours  is, — Mrs.  Baxter?" 

"Aunt  Clara.  Isn't  she  a  peach?  She's  fine."  He 
wanted  to  keep  talking,  too,  it  was  obvious.  "She 
brought  me  up,  you  know."  He  laughed  boyishly. 
"Not  that  I'd  want  you  to  hold  that  against  her,  or 
anything  like  that!" 

"Oh,  she'll  live  that  down!"  said  Susan. 

That  was  all.     But  when  Peter  Coleman  went  on 


54  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

his  way  a  moment  later  he  was  still  smiling,  and  Susan 
walked  to  her  desk  on  air. 

The  office  seemed  a  pleasant  place  to  be  that  after- 
noon. Susan  began  her  work  with  energy  and  interest, 
the  light  falling  on  her  bright  hair,  her  fingers  flying. 
She  hummed  as  she  worked,  and  one  or  two  other  girls 
hummed  with  her. 

There  was  rather  a  musical  atmosphere  in  Front 
Office;  the  girls  without  exception  kept  in  touch  with 
the  popular  music  of  the  day,  and  liked  to  claim  a 
certain  knowledge  of  the  old  classics  as  well.  Certain 
girls  always  hummed  certain  airs,  and  no  other  girl 
ever  usurped  them.  Thus  Thorny  vocalized  the 
"Spring  Song,"  when  she  felt  particularly  cheerful, 
and  to  Miss  Violet  Kirk  were  ceded  all  rights  tc 
Carmen's  own  solos  in  "Carmen."  Susan's  privilege 
included  "The  Rosary"  and  the  little  Hawaiian  fare- 
well, "Aloha  aoi."  After  the  latter  Thorny  never 
failed  to  say  dreamily,  "I  love  that  song!"  and  Susan 
to  mutter  surprisedly,  "I  didn't  know  I  was  humming 
it!" 

All  the  girls  hummed  the  Toreador's  song,  and  the 
immediate  favorites  of  the  hour,  "Just  Because  She 
Made  Those  Goo-Goo  Eyes,"  and  "I  Don't  Know 
Why  I  Love  You  but  I  Do,"  and  "Hilee-Hilo"  and 
"The  Mosquito  Parade."  Hot  discussions  as  to  the 
merits  of  various  compositions  arose,  and  the  technique 
of  various  singers. 

"Yes,  Collamarini's  dramatic,  and  she  has  a  good 
natural  voice,"  Miss  Thornton  would  admit,  "but  she 
can't  get  at  it." 

Or,  "That's  all  very  well,"  Miss  Cottle  would  assert 
boldly,  "but  Salassa  sings  better  than  either  Plangon  or 
de  Reszke.  I'm  not  saying  this  myself,  but  a  party 
that  knows  told  me  so." 

"Probably  the  person  who  told  you  so  had  never 
heard  them,"  Miss  Thornton  would  say,  bringing  the 
angry  color  to  Miss  Cottle's  face,  and  the  angry  an- 
swer: 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  55 

"Well,  if  I  could  tell  you  who  it  is,  you'd  feel  pretty 
small!" 

Susan  had  small  respect  for  the  other  girls'  opin- 
ions, and  almost  as  little  for  her  own.  She  knew  how 
ignorant  she  was.  But  she  took  to  herself  what  credit 
accrued  to  general  quoting,  quoting  from  newspapers, 
from  her  aunt's  boarders,  from  chance  conversations 
overheard  on  the  cars. 

"Oh,  Puccini  will  never  do  anything  to  touch  Bizet!" 
Susan  asserted  firmly.  Or,  "Well,  we'd  be  fighting 
Spain  still  if  it  wasn't  for  McKinleyl"  Or,  "My 
grandmother  had  three  hundred  slaves,  and  slavery 
worked  perfectly  well,  then!"  If  challenged,  she  got 
very  angry.  "You  simply  are  proving  that  you  don't 
know  anything  about  it!"  was  Susan's  last,  and  ade- 
quate, answer  to  questioners. 

But  as  a  rule  she  was  not  challenged.  Some  quality 
in  Susan  set  her  apart  from  the  other  girls,  and  they 
saw  it  as  she  did.  It  was  not  that  she  was  richer,  or 
prettier,  or  better  born,  or  better  educated,  than  any 
or  all  of  them.  But  there  was  some  sparkling,  bub- 
bling quality  about  her  that  was  all  her  own.  She 
read,  and  assimilated  rather  than  remembered  what 
she  read,  adopted  this  little  affectation  in  speech,  this 
little  nicety  of  manner.  She  glowed  with  varied  and 
absurd  ambitions,  and  took  the  office  into  her  con- 
fidence about  them.  Wavering  and  incomplete  as  her 
aunt's  influence  had  been,  one  fact  had  early  been 
impressed  upon  her;  she  was  primarily  and  absolutely 
a  "lady."  Susan's  forebears  had  really  been  rather 
ordinary  folk,  improvident  and  carefree,  enjoying  pros- 
perity when  they  had  it  with  the  uneducated,  unprac- 
tical serenity  of  the  Old  South,  shiftless  and  lazy  and 
unhappy  in  less  prosperous  times. 

But  she  thought  of  them  as  most  distinguished  and 
accomplished  gentlefolk,  beautiful  women  environed 
by  spacious  estates,  by  exquisite  old  linen  and  silver 
and  jewels,  and  dashing  cavaliers  rising  in  gay  gal- 
lantry alike  to  the  conquest  of  feminine  hearts,  or  to 


56  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

their  country's  defense.  She  bore  herself  proudly,  as 
became  their  descendants.  She  brought  the  gaze  of 
her  honest  blue  eyes  frankly  to  all  the  other  eyes  in 
the  world,  a  lady  was  unembarrassed  in  the  presence  of 
her  equals,  a  lady  was  always  gracious  to  her  inferiors. 

Her  own  father  had  been  less  elevated  in  rank  than 
his  wife,  yet  Susan  could  think  of  him  with  genuine 
*  satisfaction.  He  was  only  a  vague  memory  to  her 
now,  this  bold  heart  who  had  challenged  a  whole 
family's  opposition,  a  quarter  of  a  century  before,  and 
carried  off  Miss  Sue  Rose  Ralston,  whose  age  was 
not  quite  half  his  forty  years,  under  her  father's  very 
eyes. 

When  Susan  was  born,  four  years  later,  the  young 
wife  was  still  regarded  by  her  family  as  an  outcast. 
But  even  the  baby  Susan,  growing  happily  old  enough 
to  toddle  about  in  the  Santa  Barbara  rose-garden  that 
sheltered  the  still  infatuated  pair,  knew  that  Mother 
was  supremely  indifferent  to  the  feeling  toward  her  in 
any  heart  but  one.  Martin  Brown  was  an  Irishman, 
and  a  writer  of  random  essays.  His  position  on  a 
Los  Angeles  daily  newspaper  kept  the  little  family 
in  touch  with  just  the  people  they  cared  to  see,  and, 
when  the  husband  and  father  was  found  dead  at  his 
desk  one  day,  with  his  wife's  picture  over  the  heart 
that  had  suddenly  and  simply  ceased  to  serve  him, 
there  were  friends  all  about  to  urge  the  beautiful 
widow  to  take  up  at  least  a  part  of  his  work,  in  the 
old  environment. 

But  Sue  Rose  was  not  quite  thirty,  and  still  girlish, 
and  shrinking,  and  helpless.  Beside,  there  was  Lou's 
house  to  go  to,  and  five  thousand  dollars  life  insur- 
ance, and  three  thousand  more  from  the  sale  of  the 
little  home,  to  meet  the  immediate  need.  So  Susan  and 
her  mother  came  up  to  Mrs.  Lancaster,  and  had  a 
very  fine  large  room  together,  and  became  merged  in 
the  older  family.  And  the  eight  thousand  dollars 
lasted  a  long  time,  it  was  still  paying  little  bills,  and 
buying  birthday  presents,  and  treating  Alfie  to  a 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  57 

"safety  bicycle,"  and  Mary  Lou  to  dancing  lessons 
when,  on  a  wet  afternoon  in  her  thirteenth  summer, 
little  Susan  Brown  came  in  from  school  to  find  that 
Mother  was  very  ill. 

"Just  an  ugly,  sharp  pain,  ducky,  don't  look  so 
scared!"  said  Mother,  smiling  gallantly,  but  writhing 
under  the  bed  covers.  "Dr.  Forsythe  has  been  here, 
and  it's  nothing  at  all.  Ah-h-h!"  said  Mother,  whim- 
sically, "the  poor  little  babies !  They  go  through  this, 
and  we  laugh  at  them,  and  call  it  colic!  Never — 
laugh — at — another — baby,  Sue!  I  shan't.  You'd 
better  call  Auntie,  dear.  This — this  won't  do." 

A  day  or  two  later  there  was  talk  of  an  operation. 
Susan  was  told  very  little  of  it.  Long  afterward  she 
remembered  with  certain  resentment  the  cavalier  man- 
ner in  which  her  claims  were  dismissed.  Her  mother 
went  to  the  hospital,  and  two  days  later,  when  she  was 
well  over  the  wretchedness  of  the  ether,  Susan  went 
with  Mary  Lou  to  see  her,  and  kissed  the  pale,  brave 
little  face,  sunk  in  the  great  white  pillows. 

"Home  in  no  time,  Sue  1"  her  mother  said  bravely. 

But  a  few  days  later  something  happened,  Susan 
was  waked  from  sleep,  was  rushed  to  the  hospital 
again,  was  pressed  by  some  unknown  hand  into  a 
kneeling  position  beside  a  livid  and  heavily  breathing 
creature  whom  she  hardly  recognized  as  her  mother. 
It  was  all  confusing  and  terrifying;  it  was  over  very 
soon.  Susan  came  blinking  out  of  the  dimly  lighted 
room  with  Mary  Lou,  who  was  sobbing,  "Oh,  Aunt 
Sue  Rose!  Aunt  Sue  Rose!"  Susan  did  not  cry,  but 
her  eyes  hurt  her,  and  the  back  of  her  head  ached 
sharply. 

She  cried  later,  in  the  nights,  after  her  cousins  had 
seemed  to  be  unsympathetic,  feeling  that  she  needed 
her  mother  to  take  her  part.  But  on  the  whole  the 
cousins  were  devoted  and  kind  to  Susan,  and  the  child 
was  as  happy  as  she  could  have  been  anywhere.  But 
her  restless  ambition  forced  her  into  many  a  discon- 
tented hour,  as  she  grew,  and  when  an  office  position 


58  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

was  offered  her  Susan  was  wild  with  eagerness  to  try 
her  own  feet. 

"I  can't  bear  it!"  mourned  her  aunt,  "why  can't 
you  stay  here  happily  with  us,  lovey?  My  own  girls 
are  happy.  I  don't  know  what  has  gotten  into  you 
girls  lately,  wanting  to  rush  out  like  great,  coarse 
men !  Why  can't  you  stay  at  home,  doing  all  the  little 
dainty,  pretty  things  that  only  a  woman  can  do,  to 
make  a  home  lovely?" 

"Don't  you  suppose  I'd  much  rather  not  work?" 
Susan  demanded  impatiently.  "I  can't  have  you  sup- 
porting me,  Auntie.  That's  it." 

"Well,  if  that's  it,  that's  nonsense,  dear.  As  long 
as  Auntie  lives  all  she  asks  is  to  keep  a  comfortable 
home  for  her  girls." 

"Why,  Sue,  you'll  be  implying  that  we  all  ought  to 
have  taken  horrid  office  positions,"  Virginia  said,  in 
smiling  warning. 

Susan  remained  mutinously  silent. 

"Have  you  any  fault  to  find  with  Auntie's  provision 
for  you,  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Lancaster,  patiently. 

"Oh,  no,  auntie!  That's  not  it  at  all!"  Susan  pro- 
tested, "it's  just  simply  that  I — I  can't — I  need  money, 
sometimes "  She  stopped,  miserably. 

"Come,  now!"  Mrs.  Lancaster,  all  sweet  tolerance 
of  the  vagary,  folded  her  hands  to  await  enlighten- 
ment. "Come,  now!  Tell  auntie  what  you  need 
money  for.  What  is  this  special  great  need?" 

"No  one  special  thing,  auntie "  Susan  was  any- 
thing but  sure  of  her  ground.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
she  did  not  want  to  work  at  all,  she  merely  felt  a 
frantic  impulse  to  do  something  else  than  settle  down 
for  life -as  Mary  Lou  and  Virginia  and  Georgie  had 
done.  "But  clothes  cost  money,"  she  pursued  vaguely. 

"What  sort  of  a  gown  did  you  want,  dear?"  Mrs. 
Lancaster  reached  for  her  shabby  purse.  Susan  re- 
fused the  gift  of  a  gown  with  many  kisses,  and  no 
more  was  said  for  a  while  of  her  working. 

Th«s  was  in  her  seventeenth  summer.     For  more 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  59 

i 

than  a  year  after  that  she  drifted  idly,  reading  a  great 
many  romantic  novels,  and  wishing  herself  a  young 
actress,  a  lone  orphan,  the  adored  daughter  of  an 
invalid  father  or  of  a  rich  and  adoring  mother,  the 
capable,  worshiped  oldest  sister  in  a  jolly  big  family, 
a  lovely  cripple  in  a  bright  hospital  ward,  anything, 
in  short,  except  what  she  was. 

Then  came  the  offer  of  a  position  in  Front  Office, 
and  Susan  took  it  on  her  own  responsibility,  and  re- 
signed herself  to  her  aunt's  anger.  This  was  a  most 
unhappy  time  for  all  concerned. 

But  it  was  all  over  now.  Auntie  rebeled  no  more, 
she  accepted  the  fact  as  she  had  accepted  other  un- 
welcome facts  in  her  life.  And  soon  Susan's  little 
salary  came  to  be  depended  upon  by  the  family;  it  was 
not  much,  but  it  did  pay  a  gas  or  a  laundry  bill,  it 
could  be  "borrowed"  for  the  slippers  Georgie  must 
have  in  a  hurry,  or  the  ticket  that  should  carry  Alfie 
to  Sacramento  or  Stockton  for  his  new  job.  Virginia 
wondered  if  Sue  would  lend  her  two  dollars  for  the 
subscription  to  the  "Weekly  Era,"  or  asked,  during 
the  walk  to  church,  if  Susan  had  "plate-money"  for 
two?  Mary  Lou  used  Susan's  purse  as  her  own.  "I 
owe  you  a  dollar,  Sue,"  she  would  observe  carelessly, 
"I  took  it  yesterday  for  the  cleaner." 

Or,  on  their  evening  walks,  Mary  Lou  would  glance 
in  the  candy-store  window.  "My!  Don't  those  cara- 
mels look  delicious!  This  is  my  treat,  now,  remind 
me  to  give  it  back  to  you."  "Oh,  Ma  told  me  to  get 
eggs>"  she  would  remember  suddenly,  a  moment  later. 
"I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  pay  for  them,  dearie,  until  we 
get  home." 

Susan  never  was  repaid  these  little  loans.  She  could 
not  ask  it.  She  knew  very  well  that  none  of  the  girls 
ever  had  a  cent  given  her  except  for  some  definite  and 
unavoidable  purchase.  Her  aunt  never  spent  money. 
They  lived  in  a  continual  and  agonizing  shortage  of 
coin. 

Lately,  however,  Susan  had  determined  that  if  her 


60  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

salary  were  raised  she  would  save  the  extra  money, 
and  not  mention  the  fact  of  the  raise  at  home.  She 
wanted  a  gray  feather  boa,  such  as  Peter  Coleman's 
girl  friends  wore.  It  would  cost  twenty  dollars,  but 
what  beauty  and  distinction  it  lent  to  the  simplest 
costume ! 

Since  young  Mr.  Coleman's  appearance  in  Front 
Office  certain  young  girls  very  prominent  in  San  Fran- 
cisco society  found  various  reasons  for  coming  down, 
in  mid-afternoon,  to  the  establishment  of  Hunter, 
Baxter  &  Hunter,  for  a  chat  with  old  Mr.  Baxter, 
who  appeared  to  be  a  great  favorite  with  all  girls. 
Susan,  looking  down  through  the  glass  walls  of  Front 
Office,  would  suddenly  notice  the  invasion  of  flowered 
hats  and  smart  frocks,  and  of  black  and  gray  and  white 
feather-boas,  such  as  her  heart  desired.  She  did  not 
consciously  envy  these  girls,  but  she  felt  that,  with 
their  advantages,  she  would  have  been  as  attractive 
as  any,  and  a  boa  seemed  the  first  step  in  the  desired 
direction.  She  always  knew  it  when  Mr.  Baxter  sent 
for  Peter,  and  generally  managed  to  see  him  as  he 
stood  laughing  and  talking  with  his  friends,  and  when 
he  saw  them  to  their  carriages.  She  would  watch  him 
wistfully  when  he  came  upstairs,  and  be  glad  when 
he  returned  briskly  to  his  work,  as  if  the  interruption 
had  meant  very  little  to  him  after  all. 

One  day,  when  a  trio  of  exquisitely  pretty  girls  came 
to  carry  him  off  bodily,  at  an  early  five  o'clock,  Miss 
Thornton  came  up  the  office  to  Susan's  desk.  Susan, 
who  was  quite  openly  watching  the  floor  below,  turned 
with  a  smile,  and  sat  down  in  her  place. 

"S'listen,  Susan,"  said  Miss  Thornton,  leaning  on 
the  desk,  "are  you  going  to  the  big  game?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Susan,  suddenly  wild  to  go. 

"Well,  I  want  to  go,"  pursued  Miss  Thornton,  "but 
Wally's  in  Los  Angeles."  Wally  was  Miss  Thornton's 
"friend." 

"What  would  it  cost  us,  Thorny?" 

"Two-fifty." 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  61 

"Gosh,"  said  Susan  thoughtfully.  The  big  inter- 
collegiate game  was  not  to  be  seen  for  nothing.  Still, 
it  was  undoubtedly  the  event  of  the  sporting  year. 

"Hat  come?"  asked  Thorny. 

"Ye-es."  Susan  was  thinking.  "Yes,  and  she's 
made  it  look  lovely,"  she  admitted.  She  drew  a  sketch 
of  a  little  face  on  her  scratch  pad.  "Who's  that?" 
asked  Miss  Thornton,  interestedly.  "Oh,  no  one!" 
Susan  said,  and  scratched  it  out. 

"Oh,  come  on,  Susan,  I'm  dying  to  go  I"  said  the 
tempter. 

"We  need  a  man  for  that,  Thorny.  There's  an 
awful  crowd." 

"Not  if  we  go  early  enough.  They  say  it's  going 
to  be  the  closest  yet.  Come  on!" 

"Thorny,  honest,  I  oughtn't  to  spend  the  money," 
Susan  persisted. 

"S'listen,  Susan."  Miss  Thornton  spoke  very  low, 
after  a  cautious  glance  about  her.  "Swear  you  won't 
breathe  this !" 

"Oh,  honestly  I  won't!" 

"Wait  a  minute.  Is  Elsie  Kirk  there?"  asked  Miss 
Thornton.  Susan  glanced  down  the  office. 

"Nope.  She's  upstairs,  and  Violet's  in  Brauer's 
office.  What  is  it?" 

"Well,  say,  listen.  Last  night "  began  Miss 

Thornton,  impressively,  "Last  night  I  and  Min  and 
Floss  and  Harold  Clarke  went  into  the  Techau  for 
supper,  after  the  Orpheum  show.  Well,  after  we  got 
seated — we  had  a  table  way  at  the  back — I  suddenly 
noticed  Violet  Kirk,  sitting  in  one  of  those  private 
alcoves,  you  know ?" 

"For  Heaven's  sake !"  said  Susan,  in  proper  horror. 

"Yes.  And  champagne,  if  you  please,  all  as  bold  as 
life !  And  all  dressed  up,  Susan,  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  her!  Well.  I  couldn't  see  who  she  was 
with " 

"A  party?" 

"A  party — no  !     One  man." 


62  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Oh,  Thorny "  Susan  began  to  be  doubtful, 

slowly  shook  her  head. 

"But  I  tell  you  I  saw  her,  Sue!  And  listen,  that's 
not  all.  We  sat  there  and  sat  there,  an  hour  I  guess, 
and  she  was  there  all  that  time.  And  when  she  got 
up  to  go,  Sue,  I  saw  the  man.  And  who  do  you  sup- 
pose it  was?" 

"Do  I  know  him?"  A  sick  premonition  seized 
Susan,  she  felt  a  stir  of  agonizing  jealousy  at  her 
heart.  "Peter  Coleman?"  she  guessed,  with  burning 
cheeks. 

"Peter  Coleman!  That  kid!  No,  it  was  Mf. 
Phil!" 

"Mr.  Phil  Hunter!"  But,  through  all  her  horror, 
Susan  felt  the  warm  blood  creep  back  to  her  heart. 

"Sure." 

"But — but  Thorny,  he's  married!" 

Miss  Thornton  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  pursed 
her  lips,  as  one  well  accustomed,  if  not  reconciled,  to 
the  wickedness  of  the  world. 

"So  now  we  know  how  she  can  afford  a  velvet  tailor- 
made  and  ostrich  plumes,"  said  she.  Susan  shrank, 
in  natural  cleanness  of  heart,  from  the  ugliness  of  it. 

"Ah,  don't  say  such  things,  Thorny!"  she  said.  Her 
brows  contracted.  "His  wife  enjoying  Europe!"  she 
mused.  "Can  you  beat  it?" 

"I  think  it's  the  limit,"  said  Miss  Thornton  virtu- 
ously, "and  I  think  old  J.  B.  would  raise  the  roof. 
But  anyway,  it  shows  why  she  got  the  crediting." 

"Oh,  Thorny,  I  can't  believe  it!  Perhaps  she 
doesn't  realize  how  it  looks!" 

"Violet  Hunter!"  Thorny  said,  with  fine  scorn. 
"Now  you  mark  my  words,  Susan,  it  won't  last — things 
like  this  don't ~" 

"But — but  don't  they  sometimes  last,  for  years?" 
Susan  asked,  a  little  timidly,  yet  wishing  to  show  some 
worldly  wisdom,  too. 

"Not  like  her,  there's  nothing  to  her,"  said  the  sapi- 
ent Miss  Thornton.  "No.  You'll  be  doing  that  work 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  63 

in  a  few  months,  and  getting  forty.  So  come  along  to 
the  big  game,  Sue." 

"Well "  Susan  half-promised.  But  the  big  game 

was  temporarily  lost  sight  of  in  this  horrid  news  of 
Violet  Kirk.  Susan  watched  Miss  Kirk  during  the 
remainder  of  the  afternoon,  and  burst  out  with  the 
whole  story,  to  Mary  Lou,  when  they  went  out  to 
match  a  piece  of  tape  that  night. 

"Dear  me,  Ma  would  hate  to  have  you  coming  in 
contact  with  things  like  that,  Sue!"  worried  Mary 
Lou.  "I  wonder  if  Ma  would  miss  us  if  we  took  the 
car  out  to  the  end  of  the  line?  It's  such  a  glorious 
night!  Let's, — if  you  have  carfare.  No,  Sue,  it's 
easy  enough  to  rob  a  girl  of  her  good  name.  There 
were  some  people  who  came  to  the  house  once,  a 
man  and  his  wife.  Well,  I  suppose  I  was  ordinarily 
polite  to  the  man,  as  I  am  to  all  men,  and  once  or 
twice  he  brought  me  candy — but  it  never  entered  my 
head " 

It  was  deliciously  bracing  to  go  rushing  on,  on  the 
car,  past  the  Children's  Hospital,  past  miles  of  sand- 
hills, out  to  the  very  shore  of  the  ocean,  where  the  air 
was  salt,  and  filled  with  the  dull  roaring  of  surf.  Mary 
Lou,  sharing  with  her  mother  a  distaste  for  peanuts, 
crowds,  tin-type  men,  and  noisy  pleasure-seekers,  ig- 
nored Susan's  hints  that  they  walk  down  to  the  beach, 
and  they  went  back  on  the  same  car. 

When  they  entered  the  close,  odorous  dining-room, 
an  hour  later,  Georgie,  lazily  engaged  with  Fan-tan, 
had  a  piece  of  news. 

"Susan,  you  sly  thing!  He's  adorable!"  said 
Georgie. 

"Who?"  said  Susan,  taking  a  card  from  her  cousin's 
hand.  Dazedly  she  read  it.  "Mr.  Peter  Coleman." 

"Did  he  call?"  she  asked,  her  heart  giving  a  great 
bound. 

"Did  he  call?  With  a  perfect  heart-breaker  of  a 
puppy !" 

"London  Baby,"  Susan  said,  eagerly. 


64  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"He  was  airing  the  puppy,  he  said"  Georgie  added 
archly. 

"One  excuse  as  well  as  another!"  Mary  Lou  laughed 
delightedly  as  she  kissed  Susan's  glowing  cheek. 

"He  wouldn't  come  in,"  continued  Georgie,  "which 
was  really  just  as  well,  for  Loretta  and  her  prize  idiot 
were  in  the  parlor,  and  I  couldn't  have  asked  him  down 
here.  Well,  he's  a  darling.  You  have  my  blessing,  Sue." 

"It's  manners  to  wait  until  you're  axed,"  Susan  said 
demurely.  But  her  heart  sang.  She  had  to  listen  to  a 
little  dissertation  upon  the  joys  of  courtship,  when  she 
and  Mary  Lou  were  undressing,  a  little  later,  tactfully 
concealing  her  sense  of  the  contrast  between  their  two 
affairs. 

"It's  a  happy,  happy  time,"  said  Mary  Lou,  sighing, 
as  she  spread  the  two  halves  of  a  shabby  corset  upon 
the  bed,  and  proceeded  to  insert  a  fresh  lacing  be- 
tween them.  "It  takes  me  back  to  the  first  time  Ferd 
called  upon  me,  but  I  was  younger  than  you  are,  of 

course,  Sue.  And  Ferd !"  she  laughed  proudly. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  have  sent  Ferd  away  with 
an  excuse?  No,  sir,  he  would  have  come  in  and  waited 
until  you  got  home,  poor  Ferd!  Not  but  what  I 'think 

Peter "  He  was  already  Peter! — "did, quite  the 

correct  thing!  And  I  think  I'm  going  to  like  him,  Sue, 
if  for  no  other  reason  than  that  he  had  the  sense  to 
be  attracted  to  a  plainly-dressed,  hard-working  little 
mouse  like  my  Sue " 

"His  grandfather  ran  a  livery  stable!"  said  Susan, 
smarting  under  the  role  of  the  beggar  maiden. 

"Ah,  well,  there  isn't  a  girl  in  society  to-cfay  who 
wouldn't  give  her  eyes  to  get  him!"  said  Mary  Lou 
wisely.  And  Susan  secretly  agreed. 

She  was  kept  out  of  bed  by  the  corset-lacing,  and  so 
took  a  bath  to-night  and  brushed  and  braided  her  hair. 
Feeling  refreshed  in  body  and  spirit  by  these  achieve- 
ments, she  finally  climbed  into  bed,  and  drifted  off  upon 
a  sea  of  golden  dreams.  Georgie's  teasing  and  Mary 
Lou's  inferences  might  be  all  nonsense,  still,  he  had 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  65 

come  to  see  her,  she  had  that  tangible  fact  upon  which 
to  build  a  new  and  glorious  castle  in  Spain. 

Thanksgiving  broke  dull  and  overcast,  there  was  a 
spatter  of  rain  on  the  sidewalk,  as  Susan  loitered  over 
her  late  holiday  breakfast,  and  Georgie,  who  was  to  go 
driving  that  afternoon  with  an  elderly  admirer,  scolded 
violently  over  her  coffee  and  rolls.  No  boarders  hap- 
pened to  be  present.  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  Virginia 
were  to  go  to  a  funeral,  and  dwelt  with  a  sort  of 
melancholy  pleasure  upon  the  sad  paradox  of  such  an 
event  on  such  a  day.  Mary  Lou  felt  a  little  guilty 
about  not  attending  the  funeral,  but  slie  was  responsible 
for  the  roasting  of  three  great  turkeys  to-day,  and 
could  not  be  spared.  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  stuffed  the 
fowls  the  night  before. 

"I'll  roast  the  big  one  from  two  o'clock  on,"  said 
Mary  Lou,  "and  give  the  little  ones  turn  and  turn 
about.  The  oven  won't  hold  more  than  two." 

"I'll  be  home  in  time  to  make  the  pudding  sauce," 
her  mother  said,  "but  open  it  early,  dear,  so  that  it 
won't  taste  tinny.  Poor  Hardings!  A  sad,  sad 
Thanksgiving  for  them !"  And  Mrs.  Lancaster  sighed. 
Her  hair,  was  arranged  in  crisp  damp  scallops  under 
her  best  bonnet  and  veil,  and  she  wore  the  heavy  black 
skirt  of  her  best  suit.  But  her  costume  was  tempo- 
rarily completed  by  a  light  kimono. 

"We'll  hope  it's  a  happy,  happy  Thanksgiving  for 
dear  Mr.  Harding,  Ma,"  Virginia  said  gently. 

"I  know,  dear,"  her  mother  said,  "but  I'm  not  like 
you,  dear.  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  very  poor,  weak,  human 
sort!" 

"Rotten  day  for  the  game!"  grumbled  Susan. 

"Oh,  it  makes  me  so  darn  mad!"  Georgie  added, 
"here  I've  been  working  that  precious  idiot  for  a 
month  up  to  the  point  where  he  would  take  his  old 
horse  out,  and  now  look  at  it!" 

Everyone  was  used  to  Georgie's  half-serious  rages, 
and  Mrs.  Lancaster  only  smiled  at  her  absently. 


66  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"But  you  won't  attempt  to  go  to  the  game  on  a  day 
like  this!"  she  said  to  Susan. 

"Not  if  it  pours,"  Susan  agreed  disconsolately. 

"You  haven't  wasted  your  good  money  on  a  ticket 
yet,  I  hope,  dear?" 

"No-o,"  Susan  said,  wishing  that  she  had  her  two 
and  a  half  dollars  back.  "That's  just  the  way  of  it!" 
she  said  bitterly  to  Billy,  a  little  later.  "Other  girls 
can  get  up  parties  for  the  game,  and  give  dinners  after 
it,  and  do  everything  decently!  I  can't  even  arrange 
to  go  with  Thorny,  but  what  it  has  to  rain!" 

"Oh,  cheer  up,"  the  boy  said,  squinting  down  the 
barrel  of  the  rifle  he  was  lovingly  cleaning.  "It's  going 
to  be  a  perfect  day!  I'm  going  to  the  game  myself. 
If  it  rains,  you  and  I'll  go  to  the  Orpheum  mat.,  what 
do  you  say?" 

"Well "  said  Susan,  departing  comforted.  And 

true  to  his  prediction  the  sky  really  did  clear  at  eleven 
o'clock,  and  at  one  o'clock,  Susan,  the  happiest  girl  in 
the  world,  walked  out  into  the  sunny  street,  in  her 
best  hat  and  her  best  gown,  her  prettiest  embroidered 
linen  collar,  her  heavy  gold  chain,  and  immaculate 
new  gloves. 

How  could  she  possibly  have  hesitated  about  it,  she 
wondered,  when  she  came  near  the  ball-grounds,  and 
saw  the  gathering  crowds ;  tall  young  men,  with  a  red 
carnation  or  a  shaggy  great  yellow  chrysanthemum  in 
their  buttonholes;  girls  in  furs;  dancingly  impatient 
small  boys,  and  agitated  and  breathless  chaperones. 
And  here  was  Thorny,  very  pretty  in  her  best  gown, 
with  a  little  unusual  and  unnatural  color  on  her  cheeks, 
and  Billy  Oliver,  who  would  watch  the  game  from  the 
"dollar  section,"  providentially  on  hand  to  help  them 
through  the  crowd,  and  buy  Susan  a  chrysanthemum 
as  a  foil  to  Thorny's  red  ribbons.  The  damp  cool  air 
was  sweet  with  violets;  a  delightful  stir  and  excite- 
ment thrilled  the  moving  crowd.  Here  was  the  gate. 
Tickets?  And  what  a  satisfaction  to  produce  them, 
and  enter  unchallenged  into  the  rising  roadway,  leaving 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  67 

behind  a  line  of  jealously  watching  and  waiting  people. 

With  Billy's  help  the  seats  were  easily  found,  "the 
best  seats  on  the  field,"  said  Susan,  in  immense  satis- 
faction, as  she  settled  into  hers.  She  and  Thorny  were 
free  to  watch  the  little  tragedies  going  on  all  about 
them,  people  in  the  wrong  seats,  and  people  with  one 
ticket  too  few. 

Girls  and  young  men — girls  and  young  men — girls 
and  young  men — streamed  in  the  big  gateways,  and 
filed  about  the  field.  Susan  envied  no  one  to-day,  her 
heart  was  dancing.  There  was  a  racy  autumnal  tang 
in  the  air,  laughter  and  shouting.  The  "rooters"  were 
already  in  place,  their  leader  occasionally  leaped  into 
the  air  like  a  maniac,  and  conducted  a  "yell"  with  a 
vigor  that  needed  every  muscle  of  his  body. 

And  suddenly  the  bleachers  went  mad  and  the  air 
fluttered  with  banners,  as  the  big  teams  rushed  onto 
the  field.  The  players,  all  giants  they  looked,  in  their 
clumsy,  padded  suits,  began  a  little  practice  play  des- 
perately and  violently.  Susan  could  hear  the  quarter's 
voice,  clear  and  sharp,  "Nineteen — four — eighty- 
eight!" 

"Hello,  Miss  Brown !"  said  a  voice  at  her  knee.  She 
took  her  eyes  from  the  field.  Peter  Coleman,  one  of 
a  noisy  party,,  was  taking  the  seat  directly  in  front  of 
her. 

"Well !"  she  said,  gaily,  "be  you  a-follering  of  me, 
or  be  I  a-follering  of  you?" 

"I  don't  know! — How  do  you  do,  Miss  Thornton!" 
Peter  said,  with  his  delighted  laugh.  He  drew  to 
Susan  the  attention  of  a  stout  lady  in  purple  velvet, 
beside  him.  "Mrs.  Fox — Miss  Brown,"  said  he,  "and 
Miss  Thornton — Mrs.  Fox." 

"Mrs.  Fox,"  said  Susan,  pleasantly  brief. 

"Miss  Brown,"  said  Mrs.  Fox,  with  a  wintry  smile. 

"Pleased  to  meet  any  friend  of  Mr.  Coleman's,  I'm 
sure,"  Thorny  said,  engagingly. 

"Miss  Thornton,"  Mrs.  Fox  responded,  with  as 
little  tone  as  is  possible  to  the  human  voice. 


68  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

After  that  the  newcomers,  twelve  or  fourteen  in  all, 
settled  into  their  seats,  and  a  moment  later  everyone's 
attention  was  riveted  on  the  field.  The  men  were 
lining  up,  big  backs  bent  double,  big  arms  hanging 
loose,  like  the  arms  of  gorillas.  Breathless  attention 
held  the  big  audience  silent  and  tense. 

"Don't  you  love  it?"  breathed  Susan,  to  Thorny. 

"Crazy  about  it!"  Peter  Coleman  answered  her, 
without  turning. 

It  was  a  wonderful  game  that  followed.  Susan 
never  saw  another  that  seemed  to  her  to  have  the  same 
peculiar  charm.  Between  halves,  Peter  Coleman 
talked  almost  exclusively  to  her,  and  they  laughed  over 
the  peanuts  that  disappeared  so  fast. 

The  sun  slipped  down  and  down  the  sky,  and  the  air 
rose  chilly  and  sweet  from  the  damp  earth.  It  began 
to  grow  dark.  Susan  began  to  feel  a  nervous  appre- 
hension that  somehow,  in  leaving  the  field,  she  and 
Thorny  would  become  awkwardly  involved  in  Mrs. 
Fox's  party,  would  seem  to  be  trying  to  include  them- 
selves in  this  distinguished  group. 

"We've  got  to  rush,"  she  muttered,  buttoning  up 
her  coat. 

"Oh,  what's  your  hurry?"  asked  Thorny,  who  would 
not  have  objected  to  the  very  thing  Susan  dreaded. 

"It's  so  dark!"  Susan  said,  pushing  ahead.  They 
were  carried  by  the  crowd  through  the  big  gates,  out 
to  the  street.  Lights  were  beginning  to  prick  through 
the  dusk,  a  long  line  of  street  cars  was  waiting,  empty 
and  brightly  lighted.  Suddenly  Susan  felt  a  touch  on 
her  shoulder. 

"Lord,  you're  in  a  rush!"  said  Peter  Coleman, 
pushing  through  the  crowd  to  join  them.  He  was 
somehow  dragging  Mrs.  Fox  with  him,  the  lady  seemed 
outraged  and  was  breathless.  Peter  brought  her  tri- 
umphantly up  to  Susan. 

"Now  what  is  it  that  you  want  me  to  do,  you  ridicu- 
lous boy!"  gasped  Mrs.  Fox, — "ask  Miss  Brown  to 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  69 

come  and  have  tea  with  us,  is  that  it?  I'm  chaperon- 
ing a  few  of  the  girls  down  to  the  Palace  for  a  cup 
of  tea,  Miss  Brown, — perhaps  you  will  waive  all  for- 
mality, and  come  too?" 

Susan  didn't  like  it,  the  "waive  all  formality'* 
showed  her  exactly  how  Mrs.  Fox  regarded  the  matter. 
Her  pride  was  instantly  touched.  But  she  longed  des- 
perately to  go.  A  sudden  thought  of  the  politely  inter- 
ested Thorny  decided  her. 

"Oh,  thank  you!  Thank  you,  Mr.  Coleman,"  she 
smiled,  "but  I  can't,  to-night.  Miss  Thornton  and  I 
are  just " 

"Don't  decline  on  my  account,  Miss  Brown,"  said 
Thorny,  mincingly,  "for  I  have  an  engagement  this 
evening,  and  I  have  to  go  straight  home " 

"No,  don't  decline  on  any  account!"  Peter  said 
masterfully,  "and  don't  tell  wicked  lies,  or  you'll  get 
your  mouth  washed  out  with  soap!  Now,  I'll  put 
Miss  Thornton  on  her  car,  and  you  talk  to  Hart  here 
— Miss  Brown,  this  is  Mr.  Hart — Gordon,  Miss 
Brown — until  I  come  back!" 

He  disappeared  with  Thorny,  and  Susan,  half  ter- 
rified, half  delighted,  talked  to  Mr.  Hart  at  quite  a 
desperate  rate,  as  the  whole  party  got  on  the  dummy 
of  a  car.  Just  as  they  started,  Peter  Coleman  joined 
them,  and  during  the  trip  downtown  Susan  kept  both 
young  men  laughing,  and  was  her  gayest,  happiest 
self. 

The  Palace  Hotel,  grimy  and  dull  in  a  light  rain- 
fall, was  nevertheless  the  most  enchanting  place  in 
the  world  to  go  for  tea,  as  Susan  knew  by  instinct, 
or  hearsay,  or  tradition,  and  as  all  these  other  young 
people  had  proved  a  hundred  times.  A  covered  arcade 
from  the  street  led  through  a  row  of  small,  bright 
shops  into  the  very  center  of  the  hotel,  where  there 
was  an  enormous  court  called  the  "Palm-garden," 
walled  by  eight  rising  tiers  of  windows,  and  roofed, 
far  above,  with  glass.  At  one  side  of  this  was  the 
little  waiting-room  called  the  "Turkish  Room,"  full  of 


70  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Oriental   inlay   and   draperies,    and   embroideries   of 
daggers  and  crescents. 

To  Susan  the  place  was  enchanting  beyond  words. 
The  coming  and  going  of  strange  people,  the  arriving 
carriages  with  their  slipping  horses,  the  luggage  plas- 
tered with  labels,  the  little  shops, — so  full  of  delightful, 
unnecessary  things,  candy  and  glace  fruits,  and  orchids 
and  exquisite  Chinese  embroideries,  and  postal  cards, 
and  theater  tickets,  and  oranges,  and  paper-covered 
novels,  and  alligator  pears!  The  very  sight  of  these 
things  aroused  in  her  heart  a  longing  that  was  as 
keen  as  pain.  Oh,  to  push  her  way,  somehow,  into 
the  world,  to  have  a  right  to  enjoy  these  things,  to 
be  a  part  of  this  brilliant,  moving  show,  to  play  her 
part  in  this  wonderful  game ! 

Mrs.  Fox  led  the  girls  of  her  party  to  the  Turkish 
Room  to-night,  where,  with  much  laughter  and  chat- 
ter, they  busied  themselves  with  small  combs,  mirrors, 
powder  boxes,  hairpins  and  veils.  One  girl,  a  Miss 
Emily  Saunders,  even  loosened  her  long,  thin,  silky 
hair,  and  let  it  fall  about  her  shoulders,  and  another 
took  off  her  collar  while  she  rubbed  and  powdered 
her  face. 

Susan  sat  rather  stiffly  on  a  small,  uncomfortable 
wooden  chair,  entirely  ignored,  and  utterly  miserable. 
She  smiled,  as  she  looked  pleasantly  from  one  face  to 
another,  but  her  heart  was  sick  within  her.  No  one 
spoke  to  her,  or  seemed  to  realize  that  she  was  in  the 
room.  A  steady  stream  of  talk — such  gay,  confidential 
talk! — went  on. 

"Let  me  get  there,  Connie,  you  old  pig,  I'm  next. 
Listen,  girls,  did  you  hear  Ward  to-day?  Wasn't  that 
the  richest  ever,  after  last  night!  Ward  makes  me 
tired,  anyway.  Did  Margaret  tell  you  about  Richard 
and  Ward,  last  Sunday?  Isn't  that  rich!  I  don't  be- 
lieve it,  but  to  hear  Margaret  tell  it,  you'd  think— 
Wait  a  minute,  Louise,  while  I  pin  this  up !  Whom  are 
you  going  with  to-night?  Are  you  going  to  dinner 
there?  Why  don't  you  let  us  call  for  you?  That's 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  71 

all  right,  bring  him  along.  Will  you?  All  right. 
That's  fine.  No,  and  I  don't  care.  If  it  comes  I'll 
wear  it,  and  if  it  doesn't  come  I'll  wear  that  old  white 
rag, — it's  filthy,  but  I  don't  care.  Telephone  your 
aunt,  Con,  and  then  we  can  all  go  together.  Love  to, 
darling,  but  I've  got  a  suitor.  You  have  not !  I  have 
loo!  Who  is  it?  Who  is  it,  I  like  that!  Isn't  she 
awful,  Margaret?  Mother  has  an  awful  crush  on 

you,  Mary,  she  said Wait  a  minute !  I'm  just 

going  to  powder  my  nose.  Who  said  Joe  Chickering 
belonged  to  you?  What  nerve!  He's  mine.  Isn't 
Joe  my  property?  Don't  come  in  here,  Alice,  we're 
just  talking  about  you " 

"Oh,  if  I  could  only  slip  out  somehow!"  thought 
Susan  desperately.  "Oh,  if  only  I  hadn't  come !" 

Their  loosened  wraps  were  displaying  all  sorts  of 
pretty  little  costumes  now.  Susan  knew  that  the  sim- 
plest of  blue  linen  shirtwaists  was  under  her  own  coat. 
She  had  not  courage  to  ask  to  borrow  a  comb,  to 
borrow  powder.  She  knew  her  hair  was  mussed,  she 
knew  her  nose  was  shiny 

Her  heart  was  beating  so  fast,  with  angry  resent- 
ment of  their  serene  rudeness,  and  shame  that  she  had 
so  readily  accepted  the  casual  invitation  that  gave  them 
this  chance  to  be  rude,  that  she  could  hardly  think. 
But  it  seemed  to  her  best,  at  any  cost,  to  leave  the 
party  now,  before  things  grew  any  worse.  She  would 
make  some  brief  excuse  to  Mrs.  Fox, — headache  or 
the  memory  of  an  engagement 

"Do  you  know  where  Mrs.  Fox  is?"  she  asked  the 
girl  nearest  her.  For  Mrs.  Fox  had  sauntered  out 
into  the  corridor  with  some  idea  of  summoning  the 
men. 

The  girl  did  not  answer,  perhaps  did  not  hear. 
Susan  tried  again. 

"Do  you  know  where  Mrs.  Fox  went  to?" 

Now  the  girl  looked  at  her  for  a  brief  instant,  and 
rose,  crossing  the  little  room  to  the  side  of  another 
girl. 


72  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"No,  I  really  don't,"  she  said  lightly,  civilly,  as  she 
went. 

Susan's  face  burned.  She  got  up,  and  went  to  the 
door.  But  she  was  too  late.  The  young  men  were 
just  gathering  there  in  a  noisy  group.  It  appeared 
that  there  was  sudden  need  of  haste.  The  "rooters" 
were  to  gather  in  the  court  presently,  for  more  cheer- 
ing, and  not*>dy  wanted  to  miss  the  sight. 

"Come,  girls!  Be  quick!"  called  Mrs.  Fox.  "Come, 
Louise,  dear!  Connie,"  this  to  her  own  daughter, 
"you  and  Peter  run  ahead,  and  ask  for  my  table. 
Peter,  will  you  take  Connie?  Come,  everybody!" 

Somehow,  they  had  all  paired  off,  in  a  flash,  without1 
her.  Susan  needed  no  further  spur.  With  more  assur- 
ance than  she  had  yet  shown,  she  touched  the  last  girl, 
as  she  passed,  on  the  arm.  It  chanced  to  be  Miss 
Emily  Saunders.  She  and  her  escort  both  stopped, 
laughing  with  that  nervous  apprehension  that  seizes 
their  class  at  the  appearance  of  the  unexpected. 

"Miss  Saunders,"  said  Susan  quickly,  "will  you  tell 
Mrs.  Fox  that  my  headache  is  much  worse.  I'm 
afraid  I'd  better  go  straight  home " 

"Oh,  too  bad!"  Miss  Saunders  said,  her  round,  pale, 
rather  unwholesome  face,  expressing  proper  regret. 
"Perhaps  tea  will  help  it?"  she  added  sweetly. 

It  was  the  first  personal  word  Susan  had  won.  She 
felt  suddenly,  horrifyingly — near  to  tears. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  I'm  afraid  not !"  she  smiled  bravely. 
"Thank  you  so  much.  And  tell  her  I'm  sorry.  Good- 
night." 

"Good-night!"  said  Miss  Saunders.  And  Susan 
went,  with  a  sense  of  escape  and  relief,  up  the  long 
passageway,  and  into  the  cool,  friendly  darkness  of 
the  streets.  She  had  an  unreasoning  fear  that  they 
might  follow  her,  somehow  bring  her  back,  and  walked 
a  swift  block  or  two,  rather  than  wait  for  the  car  where 
she  might  be  found. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  rushed  into  the  house,  just 
as  the  Thanksgiving  dinner  was  announced,  half-mad 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  73 

with  excitement,  her  cheeks  ablaze,  and  her  eyes  unnat- 
urally bright.  The  scene  in  the  dining-room  was  not 
of  the  gayest;  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  Virginia  were  tired 
and  depressed,  Mary  Lou  nervously  concerned  for 
the  dinner,  Georgie  and  almost  all  of  the  few  boarders 
who  had  no  alternative  to  dining  in  a  boarding-house 
to-day  were  cross  and  silent. 

.  But  the  dinner  was  delicious,  and  Susan,  arriving  at 
the  crucial  moment,  had  a  more  definite  effect  on  the 
party  than  a  case  of  champagne  would  have  had.  She 
chattered  recklessly  and  incessantly,  and  when  Mrs. 
Lancaster's  mild  "Sue,  dear!"  challenged  one  remark, 
she  capped  it  with  another  still  less  conventional. 

Her  spirits  were  infectious,  the  gaiety  became  gen- 
eral. Mrs.  Parker  laughed  until  the  tears  streamed 
down  her  fat  cheeks,  and  Mary  Lord,  the  bony,  sallow- 
faced,  crippled  sister  who  was  the  light  and  joy  of 
Lydia  Lord's  drudging  life,  and  who  had  been  brought 
downstairs  to-day  as  a  special  event,  at  a  notable  cost 
to  her  sister's  and  William  Oliver's  muscles,  nearly 
choked  over  her  cranberry  sauce.  Susan  insisted  that 
everyone  should  wear  the  paper  caps  that  came  in  the 
bonbons,  and  looked  like  a  pretty  witch  herself,  under 
a  cone-shaped  hat  of  pink  and  blue.  When,  as  was 
usual  on  all  such  occasions,  a  limited  supply  of  claret 
came  on  with  the  dessert,  she  brought  the  whole  com- 
pany from  laughter  very  close  to  tears,  as  she  pro- 
posed, with  pretty  dignity,  a  toast  to  her  aunt,  "who 
makes  this  house  such  a  happy  home  for  us  all."  The 
toast  was  drunk  standing,  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  cried 
into  her  napkin,  with  pride  and  tender  emotion. 

After  dinner  the  diminished  group  trailed,  still 
laughing  and  talking,  upstairs  to  the  little  drawing- 
room,  where  perhaps  seven  or  eight  of  them  settled 
about  the  coal  fire.  Mrs.  Lancaster,  looking  her  best 
in  a  low-necked  black  silk,  if  rather  breathless  after 
the  hearty  dinner,  eaten  in  too-tight  corsets,  had  her 
big  chair,  Georgia  curled  girlishly  on  a  footstool  at  her 
feet.  Miss  Lydia  Lord  stealthily  ate  a  soda  mint  tablet 


74  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

now  and  then;  her  sister,  propped  with  a  dozen  pillows 
on  the  sofa,  fairly  glowed  with  the  unusual  pleasure 
and  excitement.  Little  Mrs.  Cortelyou  rocked  back 
and  forth;  always  loquacious,  she  was  especially  talka- 
tive after  to-night's  glass  of  wine. 

Virginia,  who  played  certain  simple  melodies  very 
prettily,  went  to  the  piano  and  gave  them  "Maryland" 
and  "Drink  to  Me  Only  with  Thine  Eyes,"  and  was 
heartily  applauded.  Mary  Lou  was  finally  persuaded 
to  sing  Tosti's  "Farewell  to  Summer,"  in  a  high,  sweet, 
self-conscious  soprano. 

Susan  had  disappeared.  Just  after  dinner  she  had 
waylaid  William  Oliver,  with  a  tense,  "Will  you  walk 
around  the  block  with  me,  Billy?  I  want  to  talk 
to  you,"  and  William,  giving  her  a  startled  glance, 
had  quietly  followed  her  through  the  dark  lower  hall, 
and  into  the  deserted,  moonlighted,  wind-swept  street. 
The  wind  had  fallen:  stars  were  shining. 

"Billy,"  said  Susan,  taking  his  arm  and  walking  him 
along  very  rapidly,  "I'm  going  away " 

''Going  away?"  he  said  sympathetically.  This 
statement  always  meant  that  something  had  gone  very 
wrong  with  Susan. 

"Absolutely!"  Susan  said  passionately.  "I  want  to 
go  where  nobody  knows  me,  where  I  can  make  a  fresh 
start.  I'm  going  to  Chicago." 

"What  the  deuce  are  you  raving  about?"  Mr.  Oliver 
asked,  stopping  short  in  the  street.  "What  have  you 
been  doing  now?" 

"Nothing!"  Susan  said,  with  suddenly  brimming 
eyes.  "But  I  hate  this  place,  and  I  hate  everyone  in  it, 
and  I'm  simply  sick  of  being  treated  as  if,  just  because 
I'm  poor " 

"You  sound  like  a  bum  second  act,  with  somebody 
throwing  a  handful  of  torn  paper  down  from  the 
wings!"  Billy  observed.  But  his  tone  was  kinder  than 
his  words,  and  Susan,  laying  a  hand  on  his  coat  sleeve, 
told  him  the  story  of  the  afternoon;  of  Mrs.  Fox, 
with  her  supercilious  smile;  of-  the  girls,  so  bitterly 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  75 

insulting;  of  Peter,  involving  her  in  these  embarrass- 
ments and  then  forgetting  to  stand  by  her. 

"If  one  of  those  girls  came  to  us  a  stranger,"  Susan 
declared,  with  a  heaving  breast,  "do  you  suppose  we'd 
treat  her  like  that?" 

"Well,  that  only  proves  we  have  better  manners  than 
they  havel" 

"Oh,  Bill,  what  rot!  If  there's  one  thing  society 
people  have,  it's  manners!"  Susan  said  impatiently. 
"Do  you  wonder  people  go  crazy  to  get  hold  of 
money?"  she  added  vigorously. 

"Nope.  You've  got  to  have  it.  There  are  lots  of 
other  things  in  the  world,"  he  agreed,  "but  money's 
first  and  foremost.  The  only  reason  7  want  it,"  said 
Billy,  "is  because  I  want  to  show  other  rich  people 
where  they  make  their  mistakes." 

"Do  you  really  think  you'll  be  rich  some  day, 
Billy?"  ' 

"Sure." 

Susan  walked  on  thoughtfully. 

"There's  where  a  man  has  the  advantage,"  she  said. 
"He  can  really  work  toward  the  thing  he  wants." 

"Well,  girls  ought  to  have  the  same  chance,"  Billy 
said  generously.  "Now  I  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Carroll 
Sunday " 

"Oh,  how  are  the  Carrolls?"  asked  Susan,  diverted 
for  an  instant. 

"Fine.  They  were  awfully  disappointed  you  weren't 

along.  And  she  was  talking  about  that  very 

thing.  And  she  said  her  three  girls  were  going  to 
work  just  as  Phil  and  Jim  do." 

"But  Billy,  if  a  girl  has  a  gift,  yes.  But  you  can't 
put  a  girl  in  a  foundry  or  a  grocery." 

"Not  in  a  foundry.  But  you  could  in  a  grocery. 
And  she  said  she  had  talked  to  Anna  and  Jo  since  they 
were  kids,  just  as  she  did  to  the  boys,  about  their 
work." 

"Wouldn't  Auntie  think  she  was  crazy!"  Susan, 
smiled.  After  a  while  she  said  more  mildly: 


76  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"I  don't  believe  Peter  Coleman  is  quite  as  bad  as 
the  others!" 

"Because  you  have  a  crush  on  him,"  suggested  Billy 
frankly.  "I  think  he  acted  like  a  skunk." 

"Very  well.  Think  what  you  like!"  Susan  said 
icily.  But  presently,  in  a  more  softened  tone,  she 
added,  "I  do  feel  badly  about  Thorny!  I  oughtn't 
to  have  left  her.  It  was  all  so  quick!  And  she  did 
have  a  date,  at  least  I  know  a  crowd  of  people  were 
coming  to  their  house  to  dinner.  And  I  was  so  utterly 
taken  aback  to  be  asked  out  with  that  crowd!  The 
most  exclusive  people  in  the  city, — that  set." 

"You  give  me  an  awful  pain  when  you  talk  like 
that,"  said  Billy,  bluntly.  "You  give  them  a  chance 
to  sit  on  you,  and  they  do,  and  then  you  want  to  run 
away  to  Chicago,  because  you  feel  so  hurt.  Why 
don't  you  stay  in  your  own  crowd?" 

"Because  I  like  nice  people.  And  besides,  the  Fox 
crowd  isn't  one  bit  better  than  I  am!"  said  the  incon- 
sistent Susan,  hotly.  "Who  were  their  ancestors! 
Miners  and  servants  and  farmers!  I'd  like  to  go 
away,"  she  resumed,  feverishly,  "and  work  up  to  be 
something  great,  and  come  back  here  and  have  them 
tumbling  over  themselves  to  be  nice  to  me " 

"What  a  pipe  dream!"  Billy  observed.  "Let  'em 
alone.  And  if  Coleman  ever  offers  you  another  invi- 
tation  " 

"He  won't!"  interposed  Susan. 

" Why,  you  sit  on  him  so  quick  it'll  make  his 

head  spin !  Get  busy  at  something,  Susan.  If  you  had 
a  lot  of  work  to  do,  and  enough  money  to  buy  your- 
self pretty  clothes,  and  to  go  off  on  nice  little  trips 
every  Sunday, — up  the  mountain,  or  down  to  Santa 
Cruz,  you'd  forget  this  bunch !" 

"Get  busy  at  what?"  asked  Susan,  half-hopeful,  half 
in  scorn. 

"Oh,  anything!" 

"Yes,  and  Thorny  getting  forty-five  after  twelve 
years!" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  77 

"Well,  but  you've  told  me  yourself  how  Thorny 
wastes  time,  and  makes  mistakes,  and  comes  in  late, 
and  goes  home  early " 

"As  if  that  made  any  difference !  Nobody  takes  the 
least  notice!"  Susan  said  hotly.  But  she  was  restored 
enough  to  laugh  now,  and  a  passing  pop-corn  cart 
made  a  sudden  diversion.  "Let's  get  some  crisps, 
Bill!  Let's  get  a  lot,  and  take  some  home  to  the 
others!" 

So  the  evening  ended  with  Billy  and  Susan  in  the 
group  about  the  fire,  listening  idly  to  the  reminiscences 
that  the  holiday  mood  awakened  in  the  older  women. 
Mrs.  Cortelyou  had  been  a  California  pioneer,  and 
liked  to  talk  of  the  old  prairie  wagons,  of  Indian 
raids,  of  flood  and  fire  and  famine.  Susan,  stirred  by 
tales  of  real  trouble,  forgot  her  own  imaginary  ones. 
Indians  and  wolves  in  the  strange  woods  all  about,  a 
child  at  the  breast,  another  at  the  knee,  and  the  men 
gone  for  food, — four  long  days'  trip !  The  women  of 
those  days,  thought  Susan,  carried  their  share  of  the 
load.  She  had  heard  the  story  of  the  Hatch  child 
before,  the  three-year-old,  who,  playing  about  the 
wagons,  at  the  noontime  rest  on  the  plains,  was  sud- 
denly missing!  Of  the  desperate  hunt,  the  half-mad 
mother's  frantic  searching,  her  agonies  when  the  long- 
delayed  start  must  be  made,  her  screams  when  she  was 
driven  away  with  her  tinier  child  in  her  arms,  knowing 
that  behind  one  of  those  thousands  of  mesquite  or 
cactus  bushes,  the  little  yellow  head  must  be  pillowed 
on  the  sand,  the  little  beloved  mouth  smiling  in  sleep. 

"Mrs.  Hatch  used  to  sit  for  hours,  strainin'  her  eyes 
back  of  us,  toward  St.  Joe,"  Mrs.  Cortelyou  said,  sigh- 
ing. "But  there  was  plenty  of  trouble  ahead,  for  all 
of  us,  too !  It's  a  life  of  sorrow." 

"You  never  said  a  truer  word  than  that,"  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster agreed  mournfully.  And  the  talk  came  about 
once  more  to  the  Harding  funeral. 


CHAPTER    IV 

"GOOD-MORNING!"  said  Susan,  bravely,  when  Miss 
Thornton  came  into  the  office  the  next  morning.  Miss 
Thornton  glanced  politely  toward  her. 

"Oh,  good-morning,  Miss  Brown!"  said  she,  civilly, 
disappearing  into  the  coat  closet.  Susan  felt  her  cheeks 
burn.  But  she  had  been  lying  awake  and  thinking  in 
the  still  watches  of  the  night,  and  she  was  the  wiser 
for  it.  Susan's  appearance  was  a  study  in  simple 
neatness  this  morning,  a  black  gown,  severe  white  col- 
lar and  cuffs,  severely  braided  hair.  Her  table  was 
already  piled  with  bills,  and  she  was  working  busily. 
Presently  she  got  up,  and  came  down  to  Miss  Thorn- 
ton's desk. 

"Mad  at  me,  Thorny?"  she  asked  penitently.  She 
had  to  ask  it  twice. 

"Why  should  I  be?"  asked  Miss  Thornton  lightly 

then.      "Excuse   me "    she   turned   a   page,    and 

marked    a    price.      "Excuse    me "      This    time 

Susan's  hand  was  in  the  way. 

"Ah,  Thorny,  don't  be  mad  at  me,"  said  Susan, 
childishly. 

"I  hope  I  know  when  I  am  not  wanted,"  said  Miss 
Thornton  stiffly,  after  a  silence. 

"I  don't!"  laughed  Susan,  and  stopped.  Miss 
Thornton  looked  quickly  up,  and  the  story  came  out. 
Thorny  was  instantly  won.  She  observed  with  a  little 
complacence  that  she  had  anticipated  just  some  such 
event,  and  so  had  given  Peter  Coleman  no  chance  to 
ask  her.  "I  could  see  he  was  dying  to,"  said  Thorny, 
"but  I  know  that  crowd!  Don't  you  care,  Susan, 
what's  the  difference?"  said  Thorny,  patting  her  hand 
affectionately. 

78 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  79 

So  that  little  trouble  was  smoothed  away.  Another 
episode  made  the  day  more  bearable  for  Susan. 

Mr.  Brauer  called  her  into  his  office  at  ten  o'clock. 
Peter  was  at  his  desk,  but  Susan  apparently  did  not  see 
him. 

"Will  you  hurry  this  bill,  Miss  Brown?"  said  Mr. 
Brauer,  in  his  careful  English.  "Al-zo,  I  wished  to  say 
how  gratifite  I  am  wiz  your  work,  before  zese  las* 
weeks, — zis  monss.  You  work  hardt,  and  well.  I  wish 
all  could  do  so  hardt,  and  so  well." 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  stammered  Susan,  in  honest 
shame.  Had  one  month's  work  been  so  noticeable? 
She  made  new  resolves  for  the  month  to  come.  "Was 
that  all,  Mr.  Brauer?"  she  asked  primly. 

"All?    Yes." 

"What  was  your  rush  yesterday?"  asked  Peter  Cole- 
man,  turning  around. 

"Headache,"  said  Susan,  mildly,  her  hand  on  the 
door. 

"Oh,  rot!  I  bet  it  didn't  ache  at  all!"  he  said,  with 
his  gay  laugh.  But  Susan  did  not  laugh,  and  there  was 
a  pause.  Peter's  face  grew  red. 

"Dfd — did  Miss  Thornton  get  home  all  right?"  he 
asked.  Susan  knew  he  was  at  a  loss  for  something  to 
say,  but  answered  him  seriously. 

"Quite,  thank  you.  She  was  a  little — at  least  I  felt 
that  she  might  be  a  little  vexed  at  my  leaving  her,  but 
she  was  very  sweet  about  it." 

"She  should  have  come,  tool"  Peter  said,  embar- 
rassedly. 

Susan  did  not  answer,  she  eyed  him  gravely  for  a 
few  seconds,  as  one  waiting  for  further  remarks,  then 
turned  and  went  out,  sauntering  to  her  desk  with  the 
pleasant  conviction  that  hers  were  the  honors  of  war. 

The  feeling  of  having  regained  her  dignity  was  so 
exhilarating  that  Susan  was  careful,  during  the  next 
few  weeks,  to  preserve  it.  She  bowed  and  smiled  to 
Peter,  answered  his  occasional  pleasantries  briefly  and 
reservedly,  and  attended  strictly  to  her  affairs  alone. 


80  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Thus  Thanksgiving  became  a  memory  less  humiliat- 
ing, and  on  Christmas  Day  joy  came  gloriously  into 
Susan's  heart,  to  make  it  memorable  among  all  the 
Christmas  Days  of  her  life.  Easy  to-day  to  sit  for  a 
laughing  hour  with  poor  Mary  Lord,  to  go  to  late 
service,  and  dream  through  a  long  sermon,  with  the 
odor  of  incense  and  spicy  evergreen  sweet  all  about 
her,  to  set  tables,  to  dust  the  parlor,  to  be  kissed  by 
Loretta's  little  doctor  under  the  mistletoe,  to  sweep 
up  tissue-paper  and  red  ribbon  and  nutshells  and  tinsel, 
to  hook  Mary  Lou's  best  gown,  and  accompany  Vir- 
ginia to  evening  service,  and  to  lend  Georgie  her  best 
gloves.  Susan  had  not  had  many  Christmas  presents: 
cologne  and  handkerchiefs  and  calendars  and  candy, 
from  various  girl  friends,  five  dollars  from  the  firm,  a 
silk  waist  from  Auntie,  and  a  handsome  umbrella  from 
Billy,  who  gave  each  one  of  the  cousins  exactly  the  same 
thing. 

These,  if  appreciated,  were  more  or  less  expected, 
too.  But  beside  them,  this  year,  was  a  great  box  of 
violets, — Susan  never  forgot  the  delicious  wet  odor 
of  those  violets! — and  inside  the  big  box  a  smaller 
one,  holding  an  old  silver  chain  with  a  pendant  of 
lapis  lazuli,  set  in  a  curious  and  lovely  design.  Susan 
honestly  thought  it  the  handsomest  thing  she  had  ever 
seen.  And  to  own  it,  as  a  gift  from  him!  Small 
wonder  that  her  heart  flew  like  a  leaf  in  a  high  wind. 
The  card  that  came  with  it  she  had  slipped  inside  her 
silk  blouse,  and  so  wore  against  her  heart.  "Mr.  Peter 
Webster  Coleman,"  said  one  side  of  the  card.  On 
the  other  was  written,  "S.  B.  from  P. — Happy  Fourth 
of  July!"  Susan  took  it  out  and  read  it  a  hundred 
times.  The  "P"  indicated  a  friendliness  that  brought 
the  happy  color  over  and  over  again  to  her  face.  She 
dashed  him  off  a  gay  little  note  of  thanks;  signed  it 
"Susan,"  thought  better  of  that  and  re-wrote  it,  to 
sign  it  "Susan  Ralston  Brown";  wrote  it  a  third  time, 
and  affixed  only  the  initials,  US.  B."  All  day  long  she 
wondered  at  intervals  if  the  note  had  been  too  chilly, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  81 

and  turned  cold,  or  turned  rosy  wondering  if  it  had 
been  too  warm. 

Mr.  Coleman  did  not  come  into  the  office  during  the 
following  week,  and  one  day  a  newspaper  item,  under 
the  heading  of  "The  Smart  Set,"  jumped  at  Susan 
with  the  familiar  name.  "Peter  Coleman,  who  is  at 
present  the  guest  of  Mrs.  Rodney  Chauncey,  at  her 
New  Year's  house  party,"  it  ran,  "may  accompany 
Mr.  Paul  Wallace  and  Miss  Isabel  Wallace  in  a  short 
visit  to  Mexico  next  week."  The  news  made  Susan 
vaguely  unhappy. 

One  January  Saturday  she  was  idling  along  the 
deck,  when  he  came  suddenly  up  behind  her,  to  tell 
her,  with  his  usual  exuberant  laughter,  that  he  was 
going  away  for  a  fortnight  with  the  Wallaces,  just  a 
flying  trip,  "in  the  old  man's  private  car."  He  ex- 
pected "a  peach  of  a  time." 

"You  certainly  ought  to  have  it!"  smiled  Susan 
gallantly,  "Isabel  Wallace  looks  like  a  perfect  dar- 
ling!" 

"She's  a  wonder!"  he  said  absently,  adding  eagerly, 
"Say,  why  can't  you  come  and  help  me  buy  some 
things  this  afternoon?  Come  on,  and  we'll  have  tea 
at  the  club?" 

Susan  saw  no  reason  against  it,  they  would  meet 
at  one. 

"I'll  be  down  in  J.  G.'s  office,"  he  said,  and  Susan 
went  back  to  her  desk  with  fresh  joy  and  fresh  pain 
at  her  heart. 

On  Saturdays,  because  of  the  early  closing,  the  girls 
had  no  lunch  hour.  But  they  always  sent  out  for  a 
bag  of  graham  crackers,  which  they  nibbled  as  they 
worked,  and,  between  eleven  and  one,  they  took  turns 
at  disappearing  in  the  direction  of  the  lunch-room,  to 
return  with  well  scrubbed  hands  and  powdered  noses, 
fresh  collars  and  carefully  arranged  hair.  -Best  hats 
were  usually  worn  on  Saturdays,  and  Susan  rejoiced 
that  she  had  worn  her  best  to-day.  After  the  twelve 
o'clock  whistle  blew,  she  went  upstairs. 


82  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

On  the  last  flight,  just  below  the  lunch-room,  she 
suddenly  stopped  short,  her  heart  giving  a  sick  plunge. 
Somebody  up  there  was  laughing — crying — making  a 

horrible  noise !  Susan  ran  up  the  rest  of  the 

flight. 

Thorny  was  standing  by  the  table.  One  or  two 
other  girls  were  in  the  room,  Miss  Sherman  was  mend- 
ing a  glove,  Miss  Cashell  stood  in  the  roof  doorway, 
manicuring  her  nails  with  a  hairpin.  Miss  Elsie  Kirk 
sat  in  the  corner  seat,  with  her  arm  about  the  bowed 
shoulders  of  another  girl,  who  was  crying,  with  her 
head  on  the  table. 

"If  you  would  mind  your  own  affairs  for  about  five 
minutes,  Miss  Thornton,"  Elsie  Kirk  was  saying  pas- 
sionately, as  Susan  came  in,  "you'd  be  a  good  deal 
better  off  I" 

"I  consider  what  concerns  Front  Office  concerns 
me!"  said  Miss  Thornton  loftily. 

"Ah,  don't!"  Miss  Sherman  murmured  pitifully. 

"If  Violet  wasn't  such  a  darn  fool "  Miss 

Cashell  said  lightly,  and  stopped. 

"What/5  it?"  asked  Susan. 

Her  voice  died  on  a  dead  silence.  Miss  Thornton, 
beginning  to  gather  up  veil  and  gloves  and  handbag 
scattered  on  the  table,  pursed  her  lips  virtuously.  Miss 
Cashell  manicured  steadily.  Miss  Sherman  bit  off  a 
thread. 

"It's  nothing  at  all!"  said  Elsie  Kirk,  at  last.  "My 
sister's  got  a  headache,  that's  all,  and  she  doesn't  feel 
well."  She  patted  the  bowed  shoulders.  "And  parties 
who  have  nothing  better  to  do,"  she  added,  viciously 
turning  to  Miss  Thornton,  "have  butted  in  about  it!" 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  said  Violet  suddenly,  raising  a 
face  so  terribly  blotched  and  swollen  from  tears  that 
Susan  was  genuinely  horrified.  Violet's  weak  eyes 
were  set  in  puffy  rings  of  unnatural  whiteness,  her 
loose,  weak  little  mouth  sagged,  her  bosom,  in  its  pre- 
posterous, transparent  white  lace  shirtwaist,  rose  and 
fell  convulsively.  In  her  voice  was  some  shocking 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  83 

quality  of  unwomanliness,  some  lack  of  pride,  and  re- 
serve, and  courage. 

"All  I  wanted  was  to  do  like  other  girls  do,"  said 
the  swollen  lips,  as  Violet  began  to  cry  again,  and  to 
dab  her  eyes  with  a  soaked  rag  of  a  handkerchief. 
"I  never  meant  nothing!  'N'  Mamma  says  she  knows 
It  wasn't  all  my  fault !"  she  went  on,  half  maudlin  in  her 
abandonment. 

Susan  gasped.    There  was  a  general  gasp. 

"Don't,  Vi!"  said  her  sister  tenderly.  "It  ain't 
your  fault  if  there  are  skunks  in  the  world  like  Mr. 
Phil  Hunter,"  she  said,  in  a  reckless  half-whisper.  "If 
Papa  was  alive  he'd  shoot  him  down  like  a  dog!" 

"He  ought  to  be  shot  down!"  cried  Susan,  firing. 

"Well,  of  course  he  ought!"  Miss  Elsie  Kirk,  strong 
under  opposition,  softened  suddenly  under  this  cham- 
pionship, and  began  to  tremble.  "Come  on,  Vi,"  said 
she. 

"Well,  of  course  he  ought,"  Thorny  said,  almost 
with  sympathy.  "Here,  let's  move  the  table  a  little, 
if  you  want  to  get  out." 

"Well,  why  do  you  make  such  a  fuss  about  it?" 
Miss  Cashell  asked  softly.  "You  know  as  well  as — 
as  anyone  else,  that  if  a  man  gets  a  girl  into  trouble, 
he  ought  to  stand  for " 

"Yes,  but  my  sister  doesn't  take  that  kind  of 
money!"  flashed  Elsie  bitterly. 

"Well,  of  course  not!"  Miss  Cashell  said  quickly, 
"but " 

"No,  you're  doing  the  dignified  thing,  Violet,"  Miss 
Thornton  said,  with  approval,  "and  you'll  feel  glad, 
later  on,  that  you  acted  this  way.  And,  as  far  as  my 
carrying  tales,  I  never  carried  one.  I  did  say  that  I 
thought  I  knew  why  you  were  leaving,  and  I  don't 
deny  it Use  my  powder,  right  there  by  the  mir- 
ror   But  as  far  as  anything  else  goes " 

"We're  both  going,"  Elsie  said.  "I  wouldn't  take 
another  dollar  of  their  dirty  money  if  I  was  starving! 
Come  on,  Vi." 


84  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

And  a  few  minutes  later  they  all  said  a  somewhat 
subdued  and  embarrassed  farewell  to  the  Misses  Kirk, 
who  went  down  the  stairs,  veiled  and  silent,  and  out  of 
the  world  of  Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter's  forever. 

"Will  she  sue  him,  Thorny?"  asked  Susan,  awed. 

"Sue  him?  For  what?  She's  not  got  anything  to 
sue  for."  Miss  Thornton  examined  a  finger  nail 
critically.  "This  isn't  the  first  time  this  has  happened 
down  here,"  she  said.  "There  was  a  lovely  girl  here — 
but  she  wasn't  such  a  fool  as  Violet  is.  She  kept  her 
mouth  shut.  Violet  went  down  to  Phil  Hunter's  office 
this  morning,  and  made  a  perfect  scene.  He's  going 
on  East  to  meet  his  wife  you  know;  it  must  have  been 
terribly  embarrassing  for  him !  Then  old  J.  G.  sent 
for  Violet,  and  told  her  that  there'd  been  a  great  many 
errors  in  the  crediting,  and  showed  'em  to  her,  too! 
Poor  kid " 

Susan  went  wondering  back  to  Front  Office.  The 
crediting  should  be  hers,  now,  by  all  rights !  But  she 
felt  only  sorry,  and  sore,  and  puzzled.  "She  wanted 
a  good  time  and  pretty  things,"  said  Susan  to  herself. 
Just  as  Susan  herself  wanted  this  delightful  afternoon 
with  Peter  Coleman!  "How  much  money  has  to  do 
with  life!"  the  girl  thought. 

But  even  the  morning's  events  did  not  cloud  the 
afternoon.  She  met  Peter  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Baxter's 
office,  and  they  went  laughing  out  into  the  clear  winter 
sunshine  together. 

Where  first?  To  Roos  Brothers,  for  one  of  the 
new  folding  trunks.  Quite  near  enough  to  walk,  they 
decided,  joining  the  released  throng  of  office  workers 
who  were  streaming  up  to  Kearney  Street  and  the 
theater  district. 

The  trunk  was  found,  and  a  very  smart  pigskin 
toilet-case  to  go  in  the  trunk;  Susan  found  a  sort  of 
fascination  in  the  ease  with  which  a  person  of  Peter's 
income  could  add  a  box  of  silk  socks  to  his  purchase, 
because  their  color  chanced  to  strike  his  fancy,  could 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  85 

add  two  or  three  handsome  ties.  They  strolled  along 
Kearney  Street  and  Post  Street,  and  Susan  selected  an 
enormous  bunch  of  violets  at  Podesta  and  Baldocchi's, 
declining  the  unwholesome-looking  orchid  that  was 
Peter's  choice.  They  bought  a  camera,  which  was 
left  that  a  neat  "P.  W.  C."  might  be  stamped  upon  it, 
and  went  into  Shreve's,  a  place  always  fascinating  to 
Susan,  to  leave  Mr.  Coleman's  watch  to  be  regulated, 
and  look  at  new  scarf-pins.  And  finally  they  wandered 
up  into  "Chinatown,"  as  the  Chinese  quarter  was 
called,  laughing  all  the  way,  and  keenly  alert  for  any 
little  odd  occurrence  in  the  crowded  streets.  At  Sing 
Fat's  gorgeous  bazaar,  Peter  bought  a  mandarin  coat 
for  himself,  the  smiling  Oriental  bringing  its  price 
down  from  two  hundred  dollars  to  less  than  three- 
quarters  of  that  sum,  and  Susan  taking  a  great  fancy 
to  a  little  howling  teakwood  god;  he  bought  that,  too, 
Mnd  they  named  it  "Claude"  after  much  discussion. 

"We  can't  carry  all  these  things  to  the  University 
Club  for  tea,"  said  Peter  then,  when  it  was  nearly  five 
o'clock.  "So  let's  go  home  and  have  tea  with  Aunt 
Clara — she'd  love  it!" 

Tea  at  his  own  home!     Susan's  heart  raced 

"Oh,  I  couldn't,"  she  said,  in  duty  bound. 

"Couldn't?    Why  couldn't  you?" 

"Why,  because  Auntie  mightn't  like  it.  Suppose 
your  aunt  is  out?" 

"Shucks!"  he  pondered;  he  wanted  his  way.  "I'll 
tell  you,"  he  said  suddenly.  "We'll  drive  there,  and 
if  Aunt  Clara  isn't  home  you  needn't  come  in.  How's 
that?" 

Susan  could  find  no  fault  with  that.  She  got  into  a 
carriage  in  great  spirits. 

"Don't  you  love  it  when  we  stop  people  on  the 
crossings?"  she  asked  nai'vely.  Peter  shouted,  but  she 
could  see  that  he  was  pleased  as  well  as  amused. 

They  bumped  and  rattled  out  Bush  Street,  and 
stopped  at  the  stately  door  of  the  old  Baxter  mansion. 
Mrs.  Baxter  fortunately  was  at  home,  and  Susan  fol- 


86  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

lowed  Peter  into  the  great  square  hall,  and  into  the 
magnificent  library,  built  in  a  day  of  larger  homes 
and  more  splendid  proportions.  Here  she  was  intro- 
duced to  the  little,  nervous  mistress  of  the  house,  who 
had  been  enjoying  alone  a  glorious  coal  fire. 

"Let  in  a  little  more  light,  Peter,  you  wild,  noisy 
boy,  you!"  said  Mrs.  Baxter,  adding,  to  Susan,  "This 
was  a  very  sweet  thing  of  you  to  do,  my  dear,  I  don't 
like  my  little  cup  of  tea  alone." 

"Little  cup — ha !"  said  Peter,  eying  the  woman  with 
immense  satisfaction.  "You'll  see  her  drink  five,  Miss 
Brown!" 

"We'll  send  him  upstairs,  that's  what  we'll  do," 
threatened  his  aunt.  "Yes,  tea,  Burns,"  she  added 
to  the  butler.  "Green  tea,  dear?  Orange-Pekoe?  I 
like  that  best  myself.  And  muffins,  Burns,  and  toast, 
something  nice  and  hot.  And  jam.  Mr.  Peter  likes 
jam,  and  some  of  the  almond  cakes,  if  she  has  them. 
And  please  ask  Ada  to  bring  me  that  box  of  candy 
from  my  desk.  Santa  Barbara  nougat,  Peter,  it  just 
came." 

"Isn't  this  fun!"  said  Susan,  so  joyously  that  Mrs. 
Baxter  patted  the  girl's  arm  with  a  veiny,  approving 
little  hand,  and  Peter,  eying  his  aunt  significantly,  said: 
"Isn't  she  fun?" 

It  was  a  perfect  hour,  and  when,  at  six,  Susan  said 
she  must  go,  the  old  lady  sent  her  home  in  her  own 
carriage.  Peter  saw  her  to  the  door,  "Shall  you  be 
going  out  to-night,  sir?"  Susan  heard  the  younger 
man-servant  ask  respectfully,  as  they  passed.  "Not  to- 
night!" said  Peter,  and,  so  sensitive  was  Susan  now  to 
all  that  concerned  him,  she  was  unreasonably  glad 
that  he  was  not  engaged  to-night,  not  to  see  other  girls 
and  have  good  times  in  which  she  had  no  share.  It 
seemed  to  make  him  more  her  own. 

The  tea,  the  firelight,  the  fragrant  dying  violets  had 
worked  a  spell  upon  her.  Susan  sat  back  luxuriously 
in  the  carriage,  dreaming  of  herself  as  Peter  Coleman's 
wife,  of  entering  that  big  hall  as  familiarly  as  he  did, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  87 

of  having  tea  and  happy  chatter  ready  for  him  every 
afternoon  before  the  fire 

There  was  no  one  at  the  windows,  unfortunately, 
to  be  edified  by  the  sight  of  Susan  Brown  being  driven 
home  in  a  private  carriage,  and  the  halls,  as  she  en- 
tered, reeked  of  boiling  cabbage  and  corned  beef.  She 
groped  in  the  darkness  for  a  match  with  which  to  light 
the  hall  gas.  She  could  hear  Loretta  Parker's  sweet 
high  voice  chattering  on  behind  closed  doors,  and, 
higher  up,  the  deep  moaning  of  Mary  Lord,  who  was 
going  through  one  of  her  bad  times.  But  she  met  no- 
body as  she  ran  up  to  her  room. 

"Hello,  Mary  Lou,  darling!  Where's  everyone?" 
she  asked  gaily,  discerning  in  the  darkness  a  portly 
form  prone  on  the  bed. 

"Jinny's  lying  down,  she's  been  to  the  oculist.  Ma's 
in  the  kitchen — don't  light  up,  Sue,"  said  the  patient, 
melancholy  voice. 

"Don't  light  up !"  Susan  echoed,  amazedly,  instantly 
doing  so,  the  better  to  see  her  cousin's  tear-reddened 
eyes  and  pale  face.  "Why,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  we've  had  sad,  sad  news,"  faltered  Mary  Lou, 
her  lips  trembling.  "A  telegram  from  Ferd  Eastman. 
They've  lost  Robbie!" 

"No!"  said  Susan,  genuinely  shocked.  And  to  the 
details  she  listened  sympathetically,  cheering  Mary 
Lou  while  she  inserted  cuff-links  into  her  cousin's  fresh 
shirtwaist,  and  persuaded  her  to  come  down  to  dinner. 
Then  Susan  must  leave  her  hot  soup  while  she  ran  up 
to  Virginia's  room,  for  Virginia  was  late. 

"Ha!  What  is  it?"  said  Virginia  heavily,  rousing 
herself  from  sleep.  Protesting  that  she  was  a  perfect 
fright,  she  kept  Susan  waiting  while  she  arranged  her 
hair. 

"And  what  does  Verriker  say  of  your  eyes,  Jinny?" 

"Oh,  they  may  operate,  after  all !"  Virginia  sighed. 
"But  don't  say  anything  to  Ma  until  we're  sure,"  she 
said. 


88  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Not  the  congenial  atmosphere  into  which  to  bring 
a  singing  heart !  Susan  sighed.  When  they  went  down- 
stairs Mrs.  Parker's  heavy  voice  was  filling  the  dining- 
room. 

"The  world  needs  good  wives  and  mothers  more 
than  it  needs  nuns,  my  dear!  There's  nothing  selfish 
about  a  woman  who  takes  her  share  of  toil  and  care 
and  worry,  instead  of  running  away  from  it.  Dear 
me !  many  of  us  who  married  and  stayed  in  the  world 
would  be  glad  enough  to  change  places  with  the  placid 
lives  of  the  Sisters!" 

"Then,  Mama,"  Loretta  said  sweetly  and  merrily, 
detecting  the  inconsistency  of  her  mother's  argument, 
as  she  always  did,  "if  it's  such  a  serene,  happy 
life " 

Loretta  always  carried  off  the  honors  of  war.  Susan 
used  to  wonder  how  Mrs.  Parker  could  resist  the 
temptation  to  slap  her  pretty,  stupid  little  face.  Lor- 
etta's  deep,  wise,  mysterious  smile  seemed  to  imply 
that  she,  at  nineteen,  could  afford  to  assume  the  ma- 
ternal attitude  toward  her  easily  confused  and  dis- 
turbed parent. 

"No  vocation  for  mine !"  said  Georgianna,  hardily, 
"I'd  always  be  getting  my  habit  mixed  up,  and  coming 
into  chapel  without  my  veil  on !" 

This,  because  of  its  audacity,  made  everyone  laugh, 
but  Loretta  fixed  on  Georgie  the  sweet  bright  smile  in 
which  Susan  already  perceived  the  nun. 

"Are  you  so  sure  that  you  haven't  a  vocation,  Geor- 
gie?" she  asked  gently. 

"Want  to  go  to  a  bum  show  at  the  'Central'  to- 
night?" Billy  Oliver  inquired  of  Susan  in  an  aside. 
"Harriett's  sister  is  leading  lady,  and  he's  handing 
passes  out  to  everyone." 

"Always!"  trilled  Susan,  and  at  last  she  had  a 
chance  to  add,  "Wait  until  I  tell  you  what  fun  I've 
been  having!" 

She  told  him  when  they  were  on  the  car,  and  he 
was  properly  interested,  but  Susan  felt  that  the  tea 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  89 

episode  somehow  fell  flat;  had  no  significance  for 
William. 

"Crime  he  didn't  take  you  to  the  University  Club," 
said  Billy,  "they  say  it's  a  keen  club." 

Susan,  smiling  over  happy  memories,  did  not  con- 
tradict him. 

The  evening,  in  spite  of  the  "bum"  show,  proved  a 
great  success,  and  the  two  afterwards  went  to  Zin- 
kand's  for  sardine  sandwiches  and  domestic  ginger-ale. 
This  modest  order  was  popular  with  them  because  of 
the  moderateness  of  its  cost. 

"But,  Bill,"  said  Susan  to-night,  "wouldn't  you  like 
to  order  once  without  reading  the  price  first  and  then 
looking  back  to  see  what  it  was?  Do  you  remember 
the  night  we  nearly  fainted  with  joy  when  we  found 
a  ten  cent  dish  at  Tech's,  and  then  discovered  that  it 
was  Chili  Sauce  I" 

They  both  laughed,  Susan  giving  her  usual  little 
bounce  of  joy  as  she  settled  into  her  seat,  and  the 
orchestra  began  a  spirited  selection.  "Look  there, 
Bill,  what  are  those  people  getting?"  she  asked. 

"It's  terrapin,"  said  William,  and  Susan  looked  it 
up  on  the  menu. 

"Terrapin  Parnasse,  one-fifty,"  read  Susan,  "for 
seven  of  them, — Gee!  Gracious!"  "Gracious"  fol- 
lowed, because  Susan  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to  say 
"Gee"  any  more. 

"His  little  supper  will  stand  him  in  about  fifteen 
dollars,"  estimated  Billy,  with  deep  interest.  "He's 
ordering  champagne, — it'll  stand  him  in  thirty.  Gosh !" 

"What  would  you  order  if  you  could,  Bill?"  Susan 
(asked.  It  was  all  part  of  their  usual  program. 

"Planked  steak,"  answered  Billy,  readily. 

"Planked  steak,"  Susan  hunted  for  it,  "would  it  be 
three  dollars?"  she  asked,  awed. 

"That's  it." 

"I'd  have  breast  of  hen  pheasant  with  Virginia 
ham,"  Susan  decided.  A  moment  later  her  roving  eye 


90  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

rested  on  a  group  at  a  nearby  table,  and,  with  the 
pleased  color  rushing  into  her  face,  she  bowed  to  one 
of  the  members  of  the  party. 

"That's  Miss  Emily  Saunders,"  said  Susan,  in  a  low 
voice.  "Don't  look  now — now  you  can  look.  Isn't 
she  sweet?" 

Miss  Saunders,  beautifully  gowned,  was  sitting  with 
an  old  man,  an  elderly  woman,  a  handsome,  very  stout 
woman  of  perhaps  forty,  and  a  very  young  man.  She 
was  a  pale,  rather  heavy  girl,  with  prominent  eyes 
and  smooth  skin.  Susan  thought  her  very  aristocratic 
looking. 

"Me  for  the  fat  one,"  said  Billy  simply.  "Who's 
she?" 

"I  don't  know.  Don't  let  them  see  us  looking,  Bill !" 
Susan  brought  her  gaze  suddenly  back  to  her  own 
table,  and  began  a  conversation. 

There  were  some  rolls  on  a  plate,  between  them, 
but  there  was  no  butter  on  the  table.  Their  order  had 
not  yet  been  served. 

"We  want  some  butter  here,"  said  Billy,  as  Susan 
took  a  roll,  broke  it  in  two,  and  laid  it  down  again. 

"Oh,  don't  bother,  Bill!  I  don't  honestly  want  it!" 
she  protested. 

"Rot!"  said  William.  "He's  got  a  right  to  bring 
it!"  In  a  moment  a  head-waiter  was  bending  over 
them,  his  eyes  moving  rapidly  from  one  to  the  other, 
under  contracted  brows. 

"Butter,  please,"  said  William  briskly. 

"Beg  pardon?" 

"Butter.    We've  no  butter." 

"Oh,  certainly!"  He  was  gone  in  a  second,  and  in 
another  the  butter  was  served,  and  Susan  and  Billy 
began  on  the  rolls. 

"Here  comes  Miss ,  your  friend,"  said  William 

presently. 

Susan  whirled.  Miss  Saunders  and  the  very  young 
man  were  looking  toward  their  table,  as  they  went  out. 
Catching  Susan's  eye,  they  came  over  to  shake  hands. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  91 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Brown?"  said  the  young 
woman  easily.  "My  cousin,  Mr.  Brice.  He's  nicer 
than  he  looks.  Mr.  Oliver?  Were  you  at  the  Co- 
lumbia?" 

"We  were How  do  you  do  ?  No,  we  weren't 

at  the  Columbia,"  Susan  stammered,  confused  by  the 
other's  languid  ease  of  manner,  by  the  memory  of 
the  playhouse  they  had  attended,  and  by  the  arrival 
of  the  sardines  and  ginger-ale,  which  were  just  now 
placed  on  the  table. 

"I'm  coming  to  take  you  to  lunch  with  me  some 
day,  remember,"  said  Miss  Saunders,  departing.  And 
she  smiled  another  farewell  from  the  door. 

"Isn't  she  sweet?"  said  Susan. 

"And  how  well  she  would  come  along  just  as  our 
rich  and  expensive  order  is  served!"  Billy  added,  and 
they  both  laughed. 

"It  looks  good  to  me!"  Susan  assured  him  content- 
edly. "I'll  give  you  half  that  other  sandwich  if  you 
can  tell  me  what  the  orchestra  is  playing  now." 

"The  slipper  "thing,  from  'Boheme',"  Billy  said 
scornfully.  Susan's  eyes  widened  with  approval  and 
surprise.  His  appreciation  of  music  was  an  incon- 
gruous note  in  Billy's  character. 

There  was  presently  a  bill  to  settle,  which  Susan, 
as  became  a  lady,  seemed  to  ignore.  But  she  could  not 
long  ignore  her  escort's  scowling  scrutiny  of  it. 

"What's  that?"  demanded  Mr.  Oliver,  scowling  at 
the  card.  "Twenty  cents  for  what?" 

"For  bread  and  butter,  sir,"  said  the  waiter,  in  a 
hoarse,  confidential  whisper.  "Not  served  with  sand- 
wiches, sir."  Susan's  heart  began  to  thump. 

"Billy "^  she  began. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  Billy  muttered.  "Just  wait  a 
minute!  It  doesn't  say  anything  about  that." 

The  waiter  respectfully  indicated  a  line  on  the  menu 
card,  which  Mr.  Oliver  studied  fixedly,  for  what 
seemed  to  Susan  a  long  time. 

"That's   right,"   he   said  finally,   heavily,  laying  a 


92  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

silver  dollar  on  the  check.  Keep  it."  The  waiter  did 
not  show  much  gratitude  for  his  tip.  Susan  and  Billy, 
ruffled  and  self-conscious,  walked,  with  what  dignity 
they  could,  out  into  the  night. 

"Damn  him!"  said  Billy,  after  a  rapidly  covered 
half-block. 

"Oh,  Billy,  don't!  What  do  you  care!"  Susan  said, 
soothingly. 

"I  don't  care,"  he  snapped.  Adding,  after  another 
brooding  minute,  "we  ought  to  have  better  sense  than 
to  go  into  such  places!" 

"We're  as  good  as  anyone  else!"  Susan  asserted, 
hotly. 

"No,  we're  not.  We're  not  as  rich,"  he  answered 
bitterly. 

"Billy,  as  if  money  mattered!" 

"Oh,  of  course,  money  doesn't  matter,"  he  said  with 
fine  satire.  "Not  at  all!  But  because  we  haven't  got 
it,  those  fellows,  on  thirty  per,  can  throw  the  hooks 
into  us  at  every  turn.  And,  if  we  threw  enough  money 
around,  we  could  be  the  rottenest  man  and  woman  on 
the  face  of  the  globe,  we  could  be  murderers  and 
thieves,  even,  and  they'd  all  be  falling  over  each  other 
to  wait  on  us !" 

"Well,  let's  murder  and  thieve,  then!"  said  Susan 
blithely. 

"I  may  not  do  that " 

"You  mayn't?  Oh,  Bill,  don't  commit  yourself! 
You  may  want  to,  later." 

"I  may  not  do  that,"  repeated  Mr.  Oliver,  gloomily, 
"but,  by  George,  some  day  I'll  have  a  wad  in  the  bank 
that'll  make  me  feel  that  I  can  afford  to  turn  those 
fellows  down!  They'll  know  that  I've  got  it,  all 
right." 

"Bill,  I  don't  think  that's  much  of  an  ambition," 
Susan  said,  candidly,  "to  want  so  much  money  that  you 
aren't  afraid  of  a  waiter !  Get  some  crisps  while  we're 
passing  the  man,  Billy!"  she  interrupted  herself  to  say, 
urgently,  "we  can  talk  on  the  car!" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  9& 

He  bought  them,  grinning  sheepishly. 

"But  honestly,  Sue,  don't  you  get  mad  when  you 
think  that  about  the  only  standard  of  the  world  is 
money?"  he  resumed  presently. 

"Well,  we  know  that  we're  better  than  lots  of  rich 
people,  Bill." 

"How  are  we  better?" 

"More  refined.     Better  born.     Better  ancestry." 

"Oh,  rot!  A  lot  they  care  for  that!  No,  people 
that  have  money  can  get  the  best  of  people  who  haven't, 
coming  and  going.  And  for  that  reason,  Sue,"  they 
were  on  the  car  now,  and  Billy  was  standing  on  the 
running  board,  just  in  front  of  her,  "for  that  reason, 
Sue,  I'm  going  to  make  money,  and  when  I  have  so 
much  that  everyone  knows  it  then  I'll  do  as  I  darn 
please.  And  I  won't  please  to  do  the  things  they  do, 
either!" 

"You're  very  sure  of  yourself,  Bill!  How  are  you 
going  to  make  it?" 

"The  way  other  men  make  it,  by  gosh!"  Mr.  Oliver 
said  seriously.  "I'm  going  into  blue-printing  with 
Ross,  on  the  side.  I've  got  nearly  three  thousand  in 
Panhandle  lots " 

"Oh,  you  have  not!" 

"Oh,  I  have,  too !  Spence  put  me  onto  it.  They're 
no  good  now,  but  you  bet  your  life  they  will  be !  And 
I'm  going  to  stick  along  at  the  foundry  until  the  old 
man  wakes  up  some  day,  and  realizes  that  I'm  getting 
more  out  of  my  men  than  any  other  two  foremen  in 
the  place.  Those  boys  would  do  anything  for  me " 

"Because  you're  a  very  unusual  type  of  man  to  be 
in  that  sort  of  place,  Bill!"  Susan  interrupted. 

"Shucks,"  he  said,  in  embarrassment.  "Well,"  he 
resumed,  "then  some  day  I'm  going  to  the  old  man  and 
ask  him  for  a  year's  leave.  Then  I'll  visit  every  big 
iron-works  in  the  East,  and  when  I  come  back,  I'll  take 
a  job  of  casting  from  my  own  blue-prints,  at  not  less 
than  a  hundred  a  week.  Then  I'll  run  up  some  flats 
in  the  Panhandle " 


94  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Having  married  the  beautiful  daughter  of  the  old 

man  himself "  Susan  interposed.  "And  won  first 

prize  in  the  Louisiana  lottery " 

"Sure,"  he  said  gravely.  "And  meanwhile,"  he 
added,  with  a  business-like  look,  "Coleman  has  got  a 
crush  on  you,  Sue.  It'd  be  a  dandy  marriage  for  you, 
and/don't  you  forget  it!" 

"Well,  of  all  nerve!"  Susan  said  unaffectedly,  and 
with  flaming  cheeks.  "There  is  a  little  motto,  to  every 
nation  dear,  in  English  it's  forget-me-not,  in  French  it's 
mind  your  own  business,  Bill !" 

"Well,  that  may  be,"  he  said  doggedly,  "but  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  it's  up  to  you •" 

"Suppose  it  is,"  Susan  said,  satisfied  that  he  should 
think  so.  "That  doesn't  give  you  any  right  to  interfere 
with  my  affairs !" 

"You're  just  like  Georgie  and  Mary  Lou,"  he  told 
her,  "always  bluffing  yourself.  But  you've  got  more 
brains  than  they  have,  Sue,  and  it'd  give  the  whole 
crowd  of  them  a  hand  up  if  you  made  a  marriage  like 
that.  Don't  think  I'm  trying  to  butt  in,"  he  gave 
her  his  winning,  apologetic  smile,  "you  know  I'm  as 
interested  as  your  own  brother  could  be,  Suel  If  you 
like  him,  don't  keep  the  matter  hanging  fire.  There's 
no  question  that  he's  crazy  about  you — everybody 
knows  that!" 

"No,  there's  no  question  about  that,"  Susan  said, 
softly. 

But  what  would  she  not  have  given  for  the  joy  of 
knowing,  in  her  secret  heart,  that  it  was  true ! 

Two  weeks  later,  Miss  Brown,  summoned  to  Mr. 
Brauer's  office,  was  asked  if  she  thought  that  she  could 
do  the  crediting,  at  forty  dollars  a  month.  Susan 
assented  gravely,  and  entered  that  day  upon  her  new 
work,  and  upon  a  new  era.  She  worked  hard  and 
silently,  now,  with  only  occasional  flashes  of  her  old 
silliness.  She  printed  upon  a  card,  and  hung  above 
her  desk,  these  words : 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  95 

"I  hold  it  true,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves,  to  higher  things." 

On  stepping-stones  of  her  dead  selves,  Susan 
mounted.  She  wore  a  preoccupied,  a  responsible  air, 
her  voice  softened,  her  manner  was  almost  too  sweet, 
too  bright  and  gentle.  She  began  to  take  cold,  or  al- 
most cold,  baths  daily,  to  brush  her  hair  and  mend  her 
gloves.  She  began  to  say  "Not  really?"  instead  of 
"Sat-so?"  and  "It's  of  no  consequence,"  instead  of 
"Don't  matter."  She  called  her  long  woolen  coat, 
familiarly  known  as  her  "sweater,"  her  "field- jacket/' 
and  pronounced  her  own  name  "Syusan."  Thorny, 
Georgianna,  and  Billy  had  separately  the  pleasure  of 
laughing  at  Susan  in  these  days. 

"They  should  really  have  a  lift,  to  take  the  girls  up 
to  the  lunch  room,"  said  Susan  to  Billy. 

"Of  course  they  should,"  said  Billy,  "and  a  sink  to 
bring  you  down  again  1" 

Peter  Coleman  did  not  return  to  San  Francisco  until 
the  middle  of  March,  but  Susan  had  two  of  the  long, 
ill-written  and  ill-spelled  letters  that  are  characteristic 
of  the  college  graduate.  It  was  a  wet  afternoon  in 
the  week  before  Holy  Week  when  she  saw  him  again. 
Front  Office  was  very  busy  at  three  o'clock,  and  Miss 
Garvey  had  been  telling  a  story. 

"  'Don't  whistle,  Mary,  there's  a  gpod  girl,'  the 
priest  says,"  related  Miss  Garvey.  '  'I  never  like  to 
hear  a  girl  whistle,'  he  says.  Well,-  so  that  night 
Aggie," — -Aggie  was  Miss  Kelly — "Aggie  wrote  a 
question,  and  she  put  it  in  the  question-box  they  had 
at  church  for  questions  during  the  Mission.  'Is  it  a 
sin  to  whistle?'  she  wrote.  And  that  night,  when  he 
was  readin'  the  questions  out  from  the  pulpit,  he  come 
to  this  one,  and  he  looked  right  down  at  our  pew  over 
his  glasses,  and  he  says,  'The  girl  that  asks  this  ques- 


96  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

tion  is  here,'  he  says,  'and  I  would  say  to  her,  'tis  no 
sin  to  do  annything  that  injures  neither  God  nor  your 
neighbor!'  Well,  I  thought  Aggie  and  me  would  go 
through  the  floor!"  And  Miss  Kelly  and  Miss  Garvey 
put  their  heads  down  on  their  desks,  and  laughed  until 
they  cried. 

Susan,  looking  up  to  laugh  too,  felt  a  thrill  weaken 
her  whole  body,  and  her  spine  grow  cold.  Peter  Cole- 
man,  in  his  gloves  and  big  overcoat,  with  his  hat  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  was  in  Mr.  Brauer's  office,  and 
the  electric  light,  turned  on  early  this  dark  afternoon, 
shone  full  in  his  handsome,  clean-shaven  face. 

Susan  had  some  bills  that  she  had  planned  to  show  to 
Mr.  Brauer  this  afternoon.  Six  months  ago  she  would 
have  taken  them  in  to  him  at  once,  and  been  glad  of  the 
excuse.  But  now  she  dropped  her  eyes,  and  busied  her- 
self with  her  work.  Her  heart  beat  high,  she  attacked 
a  particularly  difficult  bill,  one  she  had  been  avoiding 
for  days,  and  disposed  of  it  in  ten  minutes. 
.  A  little  later  she  glanced  at  Mr.  Brauer's  office. 
Peter  was  gone,  and  Susan  felt  a  sensation  of  sick- 
ness. She  looked  down  at  Mr.  Baxter's  office,  and 
saw  him  there,  spreading  kodak  pictures  over  the  old 
man's  desk,  laughing  and  talking.  Presently  he  was 
gone  again,  and  she  saw  him  no  more  that  day. 

The  next  day,  however,  she  found  him  at  her  desk 
when  she  came  in.  They  had  ten  minutes  of  inconse- 
quential banter  before  Miss  Cashell  came  in. 

"How  about  a  fool  trip  to  the  Chutes  to-morrow 
night?"  Peter  asked  in  a  low  tone,  just  before  depart- 
ing. 

"Lent,"  Susan  said  reluctantly. 

"Oh,  so  it  is.  I  suppose  Auntie  wouldn't  stand  for 
a  dinner?" 

"Pos-i-to-ri-ly  not!"  Susan  was  hedged  with  conven- 
tion. 

"Positorily  not?  Well,  let's  walk  the  pup?  What? 
All  right,  I'll  come  at  eight." 

"At  eight,"  said  Susan,  with  a  dancing  heart. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  97 

She  thought  of  nothing  else  until  Friday  came, 
slipped  away  from  the  office  a  little  earlier  than  usual, 
and  went  home  planning  just  the  gown  and  hat  most 
suitable.  Visitors  were  in  the  parlor;  Auntie,  think- 
ing of  pan-gravy  and  hot  biscuits,  was  being  visibly 
driven  to  madness  by  them.  Susan  charitably  took 
Mrs.  Cobb  and  Annie  and  Daisy  off  Mrs.  Lancaster's 
hands,  and  listened  sympathetically  to  a  dissertation 
upon  the  thanklessness  of  sons.  Mrs.  Cobb's  sons, 
leaving  their  mother  and  their  unmarried  sisters  in  a 
comfortable  home,  had  married  the  women  of  their 
own  choice,  and  were  not  yet  forgiven. 

"And  how's  Alfie  doing?"  Mrs.  Cobb  asked  heavily,, 
departing. 

"Pretty  well.  He's  in  Portland  now,  he  has  another 
job,"  Susan  said  cautiously.  Alfred  was  never  criti- 
cized in  his  mother's  hearing.  A  moment  later  she 
closed  the  hall  door  upon  the  callers  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  and  ran  downstairs. 

The  telephone  bell  was  ringing.    Susan  answered  it. 

"Hello  Miss  Brown!  You  see  I  know  you  in  any 
disguise!"  It  was  Peter  Coleman's  voice. 

"Hello!"  said  Susan,  with  a  chill  premonition. 

"I'm  calling  off  that  party  to-night,"  said  Peter. 
"I'm  awfully  sorry.  We'll  do  it  some  other  night  I'm 
in  Berkeley." 

"Oh,  very  well !"  Susan  agreed,  brightly. 

"Can  you  hear  me?    I  say  I'm " 

"Yes,  I  hear  perfectly." 

"What?" 

"I  say  I  can  hear!" 

"And  it's  all  right?    I'm  awfully  sorry!" 

"Oh,  certainly!" 

"All  right.  These  fellows  are  making  such  a 
racket  I  can't  hear  you.  See  you  to-morrow!" 

Susan  hung  up  the  receiver.  She  sat  quite  still  in 
the  darkness  for  awhile,  staring  straight  ahead  of  her. 
When  she  went  into  the  dining-room  she  was  very 
sober.  Mr.  Oliver  was  there;  he  had  taken  one  of  his 


98  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

men  to  a  hospital,  with  a  burned  arm,  too  late  in  the 
afternoon  to  make  a  return  to  the  foundry  worth  while. 

"Harkee,  Susan  wench!"  said  he,  "do  'ee  smell 
asparagus?" 

"Aye.  It'll  be  asparagus,  Gaffer,"  said  Susan  dis- 
piritedly, dropping  into  her  chair. 

"And  I  nearly  got  my  dinner  out  to-night!"  Billy 
said,  with  a  shudder.  "Say,  listen,  Susan,  can  you  come 
over  to  the  Carrolls,  Sunday?  Going  to  be  a  bully 
walk!" 

"I  don't  know,  Billy,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Well,  listen  what  we're  all  going  to  do,  some 
Thursday.  We're  going  to  the  theater,  and  then 
dawdle  over  supper  at  some  cheap  place,  you  know, 
and  then  go  down  on  the  docks,  at  about  three,  to 
see  the  fishing  fleet  come  in?  Are  you  on?  It's  great. 
They  pile  the  fish  up  to  their  waists,  you  know— 

"That  sounds  lovely!"  said  Susan,  eying  him  scorn- 
fully. "I  see  Jo  and  Anna  Carroll  enjoying  that!" 

"Lord,  what  a  grouch  you've  got!"  Billy  said,  with 
a  sort  of  awed  admiration. 

Susan  began  to  mold  the  damp  salt  in  an  open  glass 
salt-cellar  with  the  handle  of  a  fork.  Her  eyes  blurred 
with  sudden  tears. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Billy  asked  in  a  lowered 
voice. 

She  gulped,  merely  shook  her  head. 

"You're  dead,  aren't  you?"  he  said  repentantly. 

"Oh,  all  in !"  It  was  a  relief  to  ascribe  it  to  that. 
"I'm  awfully  tired." 

"Too  tired  to  go  to  church  with  Mary  Lou  and  me, 
dear?"  asked  Virginia,  coming  in.  "Friday  in  Passion 
Week,  you  know.  We're  going  to  St.  Ignatius.  But  if 
you're  dead ?" 

"Oh,  I  am.  I'm  going  straight  to  bed,"  Susan  said. 
But  after  dinner,  when  Mary  Lou  was  dressing,  she 
suddenly  changed  her  mind,  dragged  herself  up  from 
the  couch  where  she  was  lying  and,  being  Susan, 
brushed  her  hair,  pinned  a  rose  on  her  coat  lapel,  and 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  99 

powdered  her  nose.  Walking  down  the  street  with  her 
two  cousins,  Susan,  storm-shaken  and  subdued,  still 
felt  "good,"  and  liked  the  feeling.  Spring  was  in  the 
air,  the  early  darkness  was  sweet  with  the  odors  of 
grass  and  flowers. 

When  they  reached  the  church,  the  great  edifice  was 
throbbing  with  the  notes  of  the  organ,  a  careless  volun- 
tary that  stopped  short,  rambled,  began  again.  They 
were  early,  and  the  lights  were  only  lighted  here  and 
there;  women,  and  now  and  then  a  man,  drifted  up 
the  center  aisle.  Boots  cheeped  unseen  in  the  arches, 
sibilant  whispers  smote  the  silence,  pew-doors  creaked, 
and  from  far  corners  of  the  church  violent  coughing 
sounded  with  muffled  reverberations.  Mary  Lou  would 
have  slipped  into  the  very  last  pew,  but  Virginia  led 
the  way  up — up — up — in  the  darkness,  nearer  and 
nearer  the  altar,  with  its  winking  red  light,  and  genu- 
flected before  one  of  the  very  first  pews.  Susan  fol- 
lowed her  into  it  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction;  she  liked 
to  see  and  hear,  and  all  the  pews  were  open  to-night. 
They  knelt  for  awhile,  then  sat  back,  silent,  reveren- 
tial, but  not  praying,  and  interested  in  the  arriving  con- 
gregation. 

A  young  woman,  seeing  Virginia,  came  to  whisper 
to  her  in  a  rasping  aside.  She  "had  St.  Joseph"  for 
Easter,  she  said,  would  Virginia  help  her  "fix  him"  ? 
Virginia  nodded,  she  loved  to  assist  those  devout  young 
women  who  decorated,  with  exquisite  flowers  and  hun- 
dreds of  candles,  the  various  side  altars  of  the  church. 

There  was  a  constant  crisping  of  shoes  in  the  aisle 
now,  the  pews  were  filling  fast.  "Lord,  where  do  all 
these  widows  come  from?"  thought  Susan.  A 
"Brother,"  in  a  soutane,  was  going  about  from  pillar  to 
pillar,  lighting  the  gas.  Group  after  group  of  the 
pendent  globes  sprang  into  a  soft,  moony  glow;  the 
hanging  glass  prisms  jingled  softly.  The  altar-boys 
in  red,  without  surplices,  were  moving  about  the  altar 
now,  lighting  the  candles.  The  great  crucifix,  the 
altar-paintings  and  the  tall  candle-sticks  were  swathed 


100  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

in  purple  cloth,  there  were  no  flowers  to-night  on  the 
High  Altar,  but  it  twinkled  with  a  thousand  candles. 

The  hour  began  to  have  its  effect  on  Susan.  She  felt 
herself  a  little  girl  again,  yielding  to  the  spell  of  the 
devotion  all  about  her;  the  clicking  rosary-beads,  the 
whispered  audible  prayers,  the  very  odors, — odors  of 
close-packed  humanity, — that  reached  her  were  all  a 
part  of  this  old  mood.  A  little  woman  fluttered  up  the 
aisle,  and  squeezed  in  beside  her,  panting  like  a  fright- 
ened rabbit.  Now  there  was  not  a  seat  to  be  seen,  even 
the  benches  by  the  confessionals  were  full. 

And  now  the  organ  broke  softly,  miraculously,  into 
enchanting  and  enveloping  sound,  that  seemed  to  shake 
the  church  bodily  with  its  great  trembling  touch,  and 
from  a  door  on  the  left  of  the  altar  the  procession 
streamed, — altar-boys  and  altar-boys  and  altar-boys, 
followed  through  the  altar-gate  by  the  tall  young  priest 
who  would  "say  the  Stations."  Other  priests,  a  score 
of  them,  filled  the  altar-stalls;  one,  seated  on  the  right 
betv/een  two  boys,  would  presently  preach. 

The  procession  halted  somewhere  over  in  the  distant 
arches,  the  organ  thundered  the  "Stabat  Mater." 
Susan  could  only  see  the  candles  and  the  boys,  but  the 
priest's  voice  was  loud  and  clear.  The  congregation 
knelt  and  rose  again,  knelt  and  rose  again,  turned  and 
swayed  to  follow  the  slow  movement  of  the  procession 
about  the  church. 

When  priest  and  boys  had  returned  to  the  altar,  a 
wavering  high  soprano  voice  floated  across  the  church 
in  an  intricate  "Veni  Creator."  Susan  and  Mary  Lou 
sat  back  in  their  seats,  but  Virginia  knelt,  wrapped  in 
prayer,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  her  hat  forcing 
the  woman  in  front  of  her  to  sit  well  forward  in  her 
place. 

The  pulpit  was  pushed  across  a  little  track  laid  in 
the  altar  enclosure,  and  the  preacher  mounted  it,  shook 
his  lace  cuffs  into  place,  laid  his  book  and  notes  to  one 
side,  and  composedly  studied  his  audience. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  101 

of  the  Holy  Ghost,  Amen.  'Ask  and  ye  shall  re- 
ceive  '  "  suddenly  the  clear  voice  rang  out. 

Susan  lost  the  sermon.  But  she  got  the  text,  and 
pondered  it  with  new  interest.  It  was  not  new  to 
her.  She  had  "asked"  all  her  life  long;  for  patience, 
for  truthfulness,  for  "final  perseverance,"  for  help  for 
Virginia's  eyes  and  Auntie's  business  and  Alfie's  intem- 
perance, for  the  protection  of  this  widow,  the  conver- 
sion of  that  friend,  "the  speedy  recovery  or  happy 
death"  of  some  person  dangerously  ill.  Susan  had 
never  slipped  into  church  at  night  with  Mary  Lou, 
without  finding  some  special  request  to  incorporate  in 
her  prayers. 

To-night,  in  the  solemn  pause  of  Benediction,  she 
asked  for  Peter  Coleman's  love.  Here  was  a  tem- 
poral favor,  indeed,  indicating  a  lesser  spiritual  degree 
than  utter  resignation  to  the  Divine  Will.  Susan  was 
not  sure  of  her  right  to  ask  it.  But,  standing  to  sing  the 
"Laudate,"  there  came  a  sudden  rush  of  confidence 
and  hope  to  her  heart.  She  was  praying  for  this  gift 
now,  and  that  fact  alone  seemed  to  lift  it  above  the 
level  of  ordinary,  earthly  desires.  Not  entirely  un- 
worthy was  any  hope  that  she  could  bring  tc  this  tri- 
bunal, and  beg  for  on  her  knees. 


CHAPTER   V 

Two  weeks  later  she  and  Peter  Coleman  had  their 
evening  at  the  Chutes,  and  a  wonderful  evening  it  was ; 
then  came  a  theater  trip,  and  a  Sunday  afternoon  that 
they  spent  in  idly  drifting  about  Golden  Gate  Park, 
enjoying  the  spring  sunshine,  and  the  holiday  crowd, 
feeding  the  animals  and  eating  peanuts.  Susan  bowed 
to  Thorny  and  the  faithful  Wally  on  this  last  occasion 
and  was  teased  by  Thorny  about  Peter  Coleman  the 
next  day,  to  her  secret  pleasure.  She  liked  anything 
that  made  her  friendship  for  Peter  seem  real,  a  thing 
noticed  and  accepted  by  others,  not  all  the  romantic 
fabric  of  her  own  unfounded  dreams. 

Tangible  proof  of  his  affection  there  was  indeed,  to 
display  to  the  eyes  of  her  world.  But  it  was  for 
intangible  proof  that  Susan's  heart  longed  day  after 
day.  In  spite  of  comment  and  of  envy  from  the  office, 
in  spite  of  the  flowers  and  messages  and  calls  upon 
which  Auntie  and  the  girls  were  placing  such  flattering 
significance,  Susan  was  far  too  honest  with  life  not  to 
realize  that  she  had  not  even  a  thread  by  which  to 
hold  Peter  Coleman,  that  he  had  not  given  an  instant's 
thought,  and  did  not  wish  to  give  an  instant's  thought 
to  her,  or  to  any  woman,  as  a  possible  sweetheart 
and  wife. 

She  surprised  him,  she  amused  him,  she  was  the  com- 
pany he  liked  best,  easiest  to  entertain,  most  entertain- 
ing in  turn,  this  she  knew.  He  liked  her  raptures  over 
pleasures  that  would  only  have  bored  the  other  girls 
he  knew,  he  liked  the  ready  nonsense  that  inspired  an- 
swering nonsense  in  him,  the  occasional  flashes  of  real 
wit,  the  inexhaustible  originality  of  Susan's  point-of- 
view.  They  had  their  own  vocabulary,  phrases  remem- 

102 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  103 

bered  from  plays,  good  and  bad,  that  they  had  seen 
together,  or  overheard  in  the  car;  they  laughed  and 
laughed  together  at  a  thousand  things  that  Susan  could 
not  remember  when  she  was  alone,  or,  remembering, 
found  no  longer  amusing.  This  was  all  wonderful, 
but  it  was  not  love. 

But,  perhaps,  she  consoled  herself,'  courtship,  in  his 
class,  was  not  the  serious  affair  she  had  always  known 
it  to  be  in  hers.  Rich  people  took  nothing  very  seri- 
ously, yet  they  married  and  made  good  husbands  for 
all  that.  Susan  would  blame  herself  for  daring  to 
criticize,  even  in  the  tiniest  particular,  the  great  gift 
that  the  gods  laid  at  her  feet. 

One  June  day,  when  Susan  felt  rather  ill,  and  was 
sitting  huddled  at  her  desk,  with  chilled  feet  and  burn- 
ing cheeks,  she  was  sent  for  by  old  Mr.  Baxter,  and 
found  Miss  Emily  Saunders  in  his  office.  The  visitor 
was  chatting  with  Peter  and  the  old  man,  and  gaily 
carried  Susan  off  to  luncheon,  after  Peter  had  regretted 
his  inability  to  come  too.  They  went  to  the  Palace 
Hotel,  and  Susan  thought  everything,  Miss  Emily  espe- 
cially, very  wonderful  and  delightful,  and,  warmed  and 
sustained  by  a  delicious  lunch,  congratulated  herself  all 
during  the  afternoon  that  she  herself  had  risen  to  the 
demand  of  the  occasion,  had  really  been  "funny"  and 
"nice,"  had  really  "made  good."  She  knew  Emily  had 
been  amused  and  attracted,  and  suspected  that  she 
would  hear  from  that  fascinating  young  person  again. 

A  few  weeks  later  a  letter  came  from  Miss  Saunders 
asking  Susan  to  lunch  with  the  family,  in  their  San 
Rafael  home.  Susan  admired  the  handsome  stationery, 
the  monogram,  the  bold,  dashing  hand.  Something  in 
Mary  Lou's  and  Georgianna's  pleasure  in  this  pleasure 
for  her  made  her  heart  ache  as  she  wrote  her  accept- 
ance. She  was  far  enough  from  the  world  of  ease 
and  beauty  and  luxury,  but  how  much  further  were 
these  sweet,  uncomplaining,  beauty-starved  cousins  of 
hers! 


104  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Mary  Lou  went  with  her  to  the  ferry,  when  the 
Sunday  came,  just  for  a  ride  on  the  hot  day,  and  the 
two,  being  early,  roamed  happily  over  the  great  ferry 
building,  watching  German  and  Italian  picnics  form 
and  file  through  the  gateways,  and  late-comers  rush 
madly  up  to  the  closing  doors.  Susan  had  been  to 
church  at  seven  o'clock,  and  had  since  washed  her  hair* 
and  washed  and  pressed  her  best  shirtwaist,  but  she 
felt  fresh  and  gay. 

Presently,  with  a  shout  of  pleasure  that  drew  some 
attention  to  their  group,  Peter  Coleman  came  up  to 
them.  It  appeared  that  he  was  to  be  Miss  Saunders' 
guest  at  luncheon,  too,  and  he  took  charge  of  the 
radiant  Susan  with  evident  satisfaction,  and  much 
laughter. 

"Dear  me!  I  wish  I  was  going,  too,"  said  Mary 
Lou  mildly,  as  they  parted.  "But  I  presume  a  certain 
young  man  is  very  glad  I  am  not,"  she  added,  with  deep 
finesse.  Peter  laughed  out,  but  turned  red,  and  Susan 
wished  impatiently  that  Mary  Lou  would  not  feel  these 
embarrassing  inanities  to  be  either  welcome  or  in  good 
taste. 

But  no  small  cloud  could  long  shadow  the  perfect 
day.  The  Saunders'  home,  set  in  emerald  lawns, 
brightened  by  gay-striped  awnings,  fragrant  with  flow- 
ers indoors  and  out,  was  quite  the  most  beautiful  she 
had  ever  seen.  Emily's  family  was  all  cordiality;  the 
frail,  nervous,  richly  dressed  little  mother  made  a 
visible  effort  to  be  gracious  to  this  stranger,  and 
Emily's  big  sister,  Ella,  in  whom  Susan  recognized  the 
very  fat  young  woman  of  the  Zinkand  party,  was  won 
by  Susan's  irrepressible  merriment  to  abandon  her  atti- 
tude of  bored,  good-natured  silence,  and  entered  into 
the  conversation  at  luncheon  with  sudden  zest.  The 
party  was  completed  by  Mrs.  Saunders'  trained  nurse, 
Miss  Baker,  a  placid  young  woman  who  did  not  seem, 
to  Susan,  to  appreciate  her  advantages  in  this  wonder- 
ful place,  and  the  son  of  the  house,  Kenneth,  a  silent, 
handsome,  pale  young  man,  who  confined  his  remarks 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  105 

during  luncheon  to  the  single  observation,  made  to 
Peter,  that  he  was  "on  the  wagon." 

The  guest  wondered  what  dinner  would  be,  if  this 
were  luncheon  merely.  Everything  was  beautifully 
served,  smoking  hot  or  icy  cold,  garnished  and  seasoned 
miraculously.  Subtle  flavors  contended  with  other 
flavors,  whipped  cream  appeared  in  most  unexpected 
places — on  the  bouillon,  and  in  a  rosette  that  topped 
the  salad — of  the  hot  bread  and  the  various  chutneys 
and  jellies  and  spiced  fruits  and  cheeses  and  olives 
alone,  Susan  could  have  made  a  most  satisfactory  meal. 
She  delighted  in  the  sparkling  glass,  the  heavy  linen 
and  silver,  the  exquisite  flowers.  Together  they  seemed 
to  form  a  lulling  draught  for  her  senses;  Susan  felt 
as  if  undue  cold,  undue  heat,  haste  and  worry  and  work, 
the  office  with  its  pencil-dust  and  ink-stains  and  her 
aunt's  house,  odorous,  dreary  and  dark,  were  alike  a 
half-forgotten  dream. 

After  luncheon  they  drove  to  a  bright,  wide  tennis- 
court,  set  in  glowing  gardens,  and  here  Susan  was  intro- 
duced to  a  score  of  noisy,  white-clad  young  people,  and 
established  herself  comfortably  on  a  bench  near  the 
older  women,  to  watch  the  games.  This  second  social 
experience  was  far  happier  than  her  first,  perhaps  be- 
cause Susan  resolutely  put  her  thoughts  on  something 
else  than  herself  to-day,  watched  and  laughed,  talked 
when  she  could,  was  happily  silent  when  she  could  not, 
and  battled  successfully  with  the  thought  of  neglect 
whenever  it  raised  its  head.  Bitter  as  her  lesson  had 
been  she  was  grateful  for  it  to-day. 

Peter,  very  lithe,  very  big,  gloriously  happy,  played 
in  one  set,  and,  winning,  came  to  throw  himself  on  the 
grass  at  Susan's  feet,  panting  and  hot.  This  made 
Susan  the  very  nucleus  of  the  gathering  group,  the 
girls  strolled  up  under  their  lazily  twirling  parasols, 
the  men  ranged  themselves  beside  Peter  on  the  lawn. 
Susan  said  very  little;  again  she  found  the  conversation 
a  difficult  one  to  enter,  but  to-day  she  did  not  care; 
it  was  a  curious,  and,  as  she  was  to  karn  later,  a  char- 


106  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

acteristlc  conversation,  and  she  analyzed  it  lazily  as 
she  listened. 

There  was  a  bright  insincerity  about  everything  they 
said,  a  languid  assumption  that  nothing  in  the  world 
was  worth  an  instant's  seriousness,  whether  it  was 
life  or  death,  tragedy  or  pathos.  Susan  had  seen  this[ 
before  in  Peter,  she  saw  him  in  his  element  now.  He 
laughed  incessantly,  as  they  all  did.  The  conversation 
called  for  no  particular  effort;  it  consisted  of  one  or 
two  phrases  repeated  constantly,  and  with  varying  in- 
flections, and  interspersed  by  the  most  trivial  and  casual 
of  statements.  To-day  the  phrase,  "Would  a  nice 
girl  do  that?"  seemed  to  have  caught  the  general  fancy. 
Susan  also  heard  the  verb  to  love  curiously  abused. 

"Look  out,  George — your  racket!"  some  girl  said 
vigorously. 

"Would  a  nice  girl  do  that?  I  nearly  put  your  eye 
ou.t,  didn't  I?  I  tell  you  all  I'm  a  dangerous  char- 
acter," her  neighbor  answered  laughingly. 

"Oh,  I  love  that!"  another  girl's  voice  said,  adding 
presently,  "Look  at  Louise's  coat.  Don't  you  love  it?" 

"I  love  it,"  said  several  voices.  Another  languidly 
added,  "I'm  crazy  about  it." 

"I'm  crazy  about  it,"  said  the  wearer  modestly. 
"Aunt  Fanny  sent  it." 

"Can  a  nice  girl  do  that?"  asked  Peter,  and  there 
was  a  general  shout. 

"But  I'm  crazy  about  your  aunt,"  some  girl  asserted, 
"you  know  she  told  Mother  that  I  was  a  perfect  little 
lady — honestly  she  did!  Don't  you  love  that?" 

"Oh,  I  love  that,"  Emily  Saunders  said,  as  freshly 
as  if  coining  the  phrase.  "I'm  crazy  about  it!" 

"Don't  you  love  it?  You've  got  your  aunt's  num- 
ber," they  all  said.  And  somebody  added  thoughtfully, 
"Can  a  nice  girl  do  that?" 

How  sure  of  themselves  they  were,  how  unembar- 
rassed and  how  marvelously  poised,  thought  Susan. 
How  casually  these  fortunate  young  women  could  ask 
what  friends  they  pleased  to  dinner,  could  plan  for 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  107 

to-day,  to-morrow,  for  all  the  days  that  were  1  Noth- 
ing to  prevent  them  from  going  where  they  wanted  to 
go,  buying  what  they  fancied,  doing  as  they  pleased ! 
Susan  felt  that  an  impassable  barrier  stood  between 
their  lives  and  hers. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Miss  Ella,  driving  in  with  a 
gray-haired  young  man  in  a  very  smart  trap,  paid  a 
visit  to  the  tennis  court,  and  was  rapturously  hailed. 
She  was  evidently  a  great  favorite. 

"See  here,  Miss  Brown,"  she  called  out,  after  a  few 
moments,  noticing  Susan,  "don't  you  want  to  come 
for  a  little  spin  with  me?" 

"Very  much,"  Susan  said,  a  little  shyly. 

"Get  down,  Jerry,"  Miss  Saunders  said,  giving  her 
companion  a  little  shove  with  her  elbow. 

"Look  here,  who  you  pushing?"  demanded  the  gray- 
haired  young  man,  without  venom. 

"I'm  pushing  you." 

"  'It's  habit.  I  keep  right  on  loving  her !'  "  quoted 
Mr.  Phillips  to  the  bystanders.  But  he  got  lazily  down, 
and  Susan  got  up,  and  they  were  presently  spinning 
away  into  the  quiet  of  the  lovely,  warm  summer  after- 
noon. 

Miss  Saunders  talked  rapidly,  constantly,  and  well. 
Susan  was  amused  and  interested,  and  took  pains  to 
show  it.  In  great  harmony  they  spent  perhaps  an 
hour  in  driving,  and  were  homeward  bound  when  they 
encountered  two  loaded  buckboards,  the  first  of  which 
was  driven  by  Peter  Coleman. 

Miss  Saunders  stopped  the  second,  to  question  her 
sister,  who,  held  on  the  laps  of  a  girl  and  young  man 
on  the  front  seat,  was  evidently  in  wild  spirits. 

"We're  only  going  up  to  Cameroncourt !"  Miss 
Emily  shouted  cheerfully.  "Keep  Miss  Brown  to  din- 
ner! Miss  Brown,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again  if  you 
don't  stay!"  And  Susan  heard  a  jovial  echo  of  "Can 
a  nice  girl  do  that?"  as  they  drove  away. 

"A  noisy,  rotten  crowd,"  said  Miss  Saunders; 
"Mamma  hates  Emily  to  go  with  them,  and  what  my 


108  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

cousins — the  Bridges  and  the  Eastenbys  of  Maryland 
are  our  cousins,  I've  just  been  visiting  them — would 
say  to  a  crowd  like  that  I  hate  to  think!  That's  why 
I  wanted  Emily  to  come  out  in  Washington.  You 
know  we  really  have  no  connections  here,  and  no  old 
friends.  My  uncle,  General  Botheby  Hargrove,  has  a 
widowed  daughter  living  with  him  in  Baltimore,  Mrs. 
Stephen  Kay,  she  is  now, — well,  I  suppose  she's  really 
in  the  most  exclusive  little  set  you  could  find  any* 
where " 

Susan  listened  interestedly.  But  when  they  were 
home  again,  and  Ella  was  dressing  for  some  dinner 
party,  she  very  firmly  declined  the  old  lady's  eager 
invitation  to  remain.  She  was  a  little  more  touched 
by  Emily's  rudeness  than  she  would  admit,  a  little 
afraid  to  trust  herself  any  further  to  so  uncertain  a 
hostess. 

She  went  soberly  home,  in  the  summer  twilight, 
soothed  in  spite  of  herself  by  the  beauty  of  the  quiet 
bay,  and  pondering  deeply.  Had  she  deserved  this 
slight  in  any  way?  she  wondered.  Should  she  have 
come  away  directly  after  luncheon?  No,  for  they  had 
asked  her,  with  great  warmth,  for  dinner!  Was  it 
something  that  she  should,  in  all  dignity,  resent? 
Should  Peter  be  treated  a  little  coolly;  Emily's  next 
overture  declined? 

She  decided  against  any  display  of  resentment.  It 
was  only  the  strange  way  of  these  people,  no  claim 
of  courtesy  was  strong  enough  to  offset  the  counter- 
claim of  any  random  desire.  They  were  too  used  to 
taking  what  they  wanted,  to  forgetting  what  it  was  not 
entirely  convenient  to  remember.  They  would  think  it 
absurd,  even  delightfully  amusing  in  her,  to  show  the 
least  feeling. 

Arriving  late,  she  gave  her  cousins  a  glowing  account 
of  the  day,  and  laughed  with  Georgie  over  the  account 
of  a  call  from  Loretta's  Doctor  O'Connor.  "Loretta's 
beau  having  the  nerve  to  call  on  me!"  Georgie  said» 
with  great  amusement. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  109 

Almost  hourly,  in  these  days  when  she  saw  him  con- 
stantly, Susan  tried  to  convince  herself  that  her  heart 
was  not  quite  committed  yet  to  Peter  Coleman's  keep- 
ing. But  always  without  success.  The  big,  sweet- 
tempered,  laughing  fellow,  with  his  generosity,  his 
wealth,  his  position,  had  become  all  her  world,  or 
rather  he  had  become  the  reigning  personage  in  that 
other  world  at  whose  doorway  Susan  stood,  longing 
and  enraptured. 

A  year  ago,  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  him  so  often, 
of  feeling  so  sure  of  his  admiration  and  affection,  of 
calling  him  "Peter,"  Susan  would  have  felt  herself  only 
too  fortunate.  But  these  privileges,  fully  realized  now, 
brought  her  more  pain  than  joy.  A  restless  unhappi- 
ness  clouded  their  gay  times  together,  and  when  she 
was  alone  Susan  spent  troubled  hours  in  analysis  of  his 
tones,  his  looks,  his  words.  If  a  chance  careless  phrase 
of  his  seemed  to  indicate  a  deepening  of  the  feeling 
between  them,  Susan  hugged  that  phrase  to  her  heart. 
If  Peter,  on  the  other  hand,  eagerly  sketched  to  her 
plans  for  a  future  that  had  no  place  for  her,  Susan 
drooped,  and  lay  wakeful  and  heartsick  long  into  the 
night.  She  cared  for  him  truly  and  deeply,  although 
she  never  said  so,  even  to  herself,  and  she  longed  with 
all  her  ardent  young  soul  for  the  place  in  the  world 
that  awaited  his  wife.  Susan  knew  that  she  could  fill 
it,  that  he  would  never  be  anything  but  proud  of  her; 
she  only  awaited  the  word — less  than  a  word! — that 
should  give  her  the  right  to  enter  into  her  kingdom. 

By  all  the  conventions  of  her  world  these  thoughts 
should  not  have  come  to  her  until  Peter's  attitude  was 
absolutely  ascertained.  But  Susan  was  honest  with 
herself;  she  must  have  been  curiously  lacking  in  human 
tenderness,  indeed,  not  to  have  yielded  her  affection  to 
so  joyous  and  so  winning  a  claimant. 

As  the  weeks  went  by  she  understood  his  ideals  and 
those  of  his  associates  more  and  more  clearly,  and  if 
Peter  lost  something  of  his  old  quality  as  a  god,  by 
the  analysis,  Susan  loved  him  all  the  more  for  finding 


110  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

him  not  quite  perfect.  She  knew  that  he  was  young, 
that  his  head  was  perhaps  a  little  turned  by  sudden 
wealth  and  popularity,  that  life  was  sweet  to  him 
just  as  it  was;  he  was  not  ready  yet  for  responsibilities 
and  bonds.  He  thought  Miss  Susan  Brown  was  the 
"bulliest"  girl  he  knew,  loved  to  give  her  good  times 
and  resented  the  mere  mention  of  any  other  man's 
admiration  for  her.  Of  what  could  she  complain? 

Of  course — Susan  could  imagine  him  as  disposing 
of  the  thought  comfortably — she  didn't  complain.  She 
took  things  just  as  he  wanted  her  to,  had  a  glorious 
time  whenever  she  was  with  him,  and  was  just  as 
happy  doing  other  things  when  he  wasn't  about.  Peter 
went  for  a  month  to  Tahoe  this  summer,  and  wrote 
Susan  that  there  wasn't  a  fellow  at  the  hotel  that  was 
half  as  much  fun  as  she  was.  He  told  her  that  if  she 
didn't  immediately  answer  that  she  missed  him  like 
Hannibal  he  would  jump  into  the  lake. 

Susan  pondered  over  the  letter.  How  answer  it 
most  effectively?  If  she  admitted  that  she  really  did 
miss  him  terribly — but  Susan  was  afraid  of  the  state- 
ment, in  cold  black-and-white.  Suppose  that  she  hinted 
at  herself  as  consoled  by  some  newer  admirer?  The 
admirer  did  not  exist,  but  Peter  would  not  know  that. 
She  discarded  this  subterfuge  as  "cheap." 

But  how  did  other  girls  manage  it?  The  papers 
were  full  of  engagements,  men  were  proposing  matri- 
mony, girls  were  announcing  themselves  as  promised, 
in  all  happy  certainty.  Susan  decided  that,  when  Peter 
came  home,  she  would  allow  their  friendship  to  pro- 
ceed just  a  little  further  and  then  suddenly  discourage 
every  overture,  refuse  invitations,  and  generally  make 
herself  as  unpleasant  is  possible,  on  the  ground  that 
Auntie  "didn't  like  it."  This  would  do  one  of  two 
things,  either  stop  their  friendship  off  short, — it 
wouldn't  do  that,  she  was  happily  confident, — or  com- 
mence things  upon  a  new  and  more  definite  basis. 

But  when  Peter  came  back  he  dragged  his  little 
aunt  all  the  way  up  to  Mr.  Brauer's  office  especially 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  111 

to  ask  Miss  Brown  if  she  would  dine  with  them  infor- 
mally that  very  evening.  This  was  definite  enough  I 
Susan  accepted  and  planned  a  flying  trip  home  for  a 
fresh  shirtwaist  at  five  o'clock.  But  at  five  a  trouble- 
some bill  delayed  her,  and  Susan,  resisting  an  impulse 
to  shut  it  into  a  desk  drawer  and  run  away  from  it, 
settled  down  soberly  to  master  it.  She  was  conscious, 
as  she  shook  hands  with  her  hostess  two  hours  later, 
of  soiled  cuffs,  but  old  Mr.  Baxter,  hearing  her  apolo- 
gies, brought  her  downstairs  a  beautifully  embroidered 
Turkish  robe,  in  dull  pinks  and  blues,  and  Susan,  feel- 
ing that  virtue  sometimes  was  rewarded,  had  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing  that  she  looked  like  a  pretty  gipsy 
during  the  whole  evening,  and  was  immensely  gratify- 
ing her  old  host  as  well.  To  Peter,  it  was  just  a  quiet, 
happy  evening  at  home,  with  the  pianola  and  flashlight 
photographs,  and  a  rarebit  that  wouldn't  grow  creamy 
in  spite  of  his  and  Susan's  combined  efforts.  But  to 
Susan  it  was  a  glimpse  of  Paradise. 

"Peter  loves  to  have  his  girl  friends  dine  here," 
smiled  old  Mrs.  Baxter  in  parting.  "You  must  come 
again.  He  has  company  two  or  three  times  a  week." 
Susan  smiled  in  response,  but  the  little  speech  was  the 
one  blot  on  a  happy  evening. 

Every  happy  time  seemed  to  have  its  one  blot.  Susan 
would  have  her  hour,  would  try  to  keep  the  tenderness 
out  of  her  "When  do  I  see  you  again,  Peter?"  to  be 
met  by  his  cheerful  "Well,  I  don't  know.  I'm  going 
up  to  the  Yellands'  for  a  week,  you  know.  Do  you 
know  Clare  Yelland?  She's  the  dandiest  girl  you  ever 
saw — nineteen,  and  a  raving  beauty!"  Or,  wearing 
one  of  Peter's  roses  on  her  black  office-dress,  she  would 
have  to  smile  through  Thorny's  interested  speculations 
as  to  his  friendship  for  this  society  girl  or  that.  "The 
Chronicle  said  yesterday  that  he  was  supposed  to  be 
terribly  crushed  on  that  Washington  girl,"  Thorny 
would  report.  "Of  course,  no  names,  but  you  could 
tell  who  they  meant!" 


112  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Susan  began  to  talk  of  going  away  "to  work." 

"Lord,  aren't  you  working  now?"  asked  William 
Oliver  in  healthy  scorn. 

"Not  working  as  hard  as  I  could!"  Susan  said.  "I 
can't — can't  seem  to  get  interested "  Tears  thick- 
ened her  voice,  she  stopped  short. 

The  two  were  sitting  on  the  upper  step  of  the  second 
flight  of  stairs  in  the  late  evening,  just  outside  the  door 
of  the  room  where  Alfred  Lancaster  was  tossing  and 
moaning  in  the  grip  of  a  heavy  cold  and  fever.  Alfred 
had  lost  his  position,  had  been  drinking  again,  and 
now  had  come  home  to  his  mother  for  the  fiftieth 
time  to  be  nursed  and  consoled.  Mrs.  Lancaster,  her 
good  face  all  mother-love  and  pity,  sat  at  his  side. 
Mary  Lou  wept  steadily  and  unobtrusively.  Susan  and 
Billy  were  waiting  for  the  doctor. 

"No,"  the  girl  resumed  thoughtfully,  after  a  pause, 
"I  feel  as  if  I'd  gotten  all  twisted  up  and  I  want  to 
go  away  somewhere  and  get  started  fresh.  I  could 
work  like  a  slave,  Bill,  in  a  great  clean  institution,  or 
a  newspaper  office,  or  as  an  actress.  But  I  can't  seem 
to  straighten  things  out  here.  This  isn't  my  house,  1 
didn't  have  anything  to  do  with  the  making  of  it,  and 
I  can't  feel  interested  in  it.  I'd  rather  do  things 
wrong,  but  do  them  my  way !" 

"It  seems  to  me  you're  getting  industrious  all  of  a 
sudden,  Sue." 

"No."  She  hardly  understood  herself.  "But  I 
want  to  get  somewhere  in  this  life,  Bill,"  she  mused. 
"I  don't  want  to  sit  back  and  wait  for  things  to  come 
to  me.  I  want  to  go  to  them.  I  want  some  alterna- 
tive. So  that "  her  voice  sank,  "so  that,  if  mar- 
riage doesn't  come,  I  can  say  to  myself,  'Never  mind, 
I've  got  my  work !' ' 

"Just  as  a  man  would,"  he  submitted  thoughtfully. 

"Just  as  a  man  would,"  she  echoed,  eager  for  his 
sympathy. 

"Well,  that's  Mrs.  Carroll's  idea.  She  says  that 
very  often,  when  a  girl  thinks  she  wants  to  get  mar- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  113 

ried,  what  she  really  wants  is  financial  independence 
and  pretty  clothes  and  an  interest  in  life." 

"I  think  that's  perfectly  true,"  Susan  said,  struck. 
"Isn't  she  wise?"  she  added. 

"Yes,  she's  a  wonder!  Wise  and  strong, — she's 
doing  too  much  now,  though.  How  long  since  you've 
been  over  there,  Sue?" 

"Oh,  ages !  I'm  ashamed  to  say.  Months.  I  write 
to  Anna  now  and  then,  but  somehow,  on  Sundays " 

She  did  not  finish,  but  his  thoughts  supplied  the 
reason.  Susan  was  always  at  home  on  Sundays  now, 
unless  she  went  out  with  Peter  Coleman. 

"You  ought  to  take  Coleman  over  there  some  day, 
Sue,  they  used  to  know  him  when  he  was  a  kid.  Let's 
all  go  over  some  Sunday." 

"That  would  be  fun!"  But  he  knew  she  did  not 
mean  it.  The  atmosphere  of  the  Carrolls'  home,  their 
poverty,  their  hard  work,  their  gallant  endurance  of 
privation  and  restriction  were  not  in  accord  with 
Susan's  present  mood.  "How  are  all  of  them?"  she 
presently  asked,  after  an  interval,  in  which  Alfie's 
moaning  and  the  hoarse  deep  voice  of  Mary  Lord  up- 
stairs had  been  the  only  sounds. 

"Pretty  good.  Joe's  working  now,  the  little  dar- 
ling!" 

"Joe  is!    What  at?" 

"She's  in  an  architect's  office,  Huxley  and  Huxley. 
It's  a  pretty  good  job,  I  guess." 

"But,  Billy,  doesn't  that  seem  terrible?  Joe's  so 
beautiful,  and  when  you  think  how  rich  their  grand- 
father was!  And  who's  home?" 

"Well,  Anna  gets  home  from  the  hospital  every 
other  week,  and  Phil  comes  home  with  Joe,  of  course. 
Jim's  still  in  school,  and  Betsey  helps  with  housework. 
Betsey  has  a  little  job,  too.  She  teaches  an  infant  class 
at  that  little  private  school  over  there." 

"Billy,  don't  those  people  have  a  hard  time!  Is 
Phil  behaving?" 

"Better  than  he  did.     Yes,  I  guess  he's  pretty  good 


114  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

now.  But  there  are  all  Jim's  typhoid  bills  to  pay. 
Mrs.  Carroll  worries  a  good  deal.  Anna's  an  angel 
about  everything,  but  of  course  Betts  is  only  a  kid, 
and  she  gets  awfully  mad." 

"And  Josephine,"  Susan  smiled.     "How's  she?" 

"Honestly,  Sue,"  Mr.  Oliver's  face  assumed  the 
engaging  expression  reserved  only  for  his  love  affairs, 
"she  is  the  dearest  little  darling  ever!  She  followed 
me  out  to  the  porch  on  Sunday,  and  said  'Don't  catch 
cold,  and  die  before  your  time,' — the  little  cutie!" 

"Oh,  Bill,  you  imbecile!  There's  nothing  to  that" 
Susan  laughed  out  gaily. 

"Aw,  well,"  he  began  affrontedly,  "it  was  the  little 
way  she  said  it " 

"Sh-sh!"  said  Mary  Lou,  white  faced,  heavy-eyed, 
at  Alfred's  door.  "He's  just  dropped  off.  The  doc-, 
tor  just  came  up  the  steps,  Bill,  will  you  go  down  and 
ask  him  to  come  right  up?  Why  don't  you  go  to  bed, 
Sue?" 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  wait?"  asked  Susan. 

"Oh,  just  until  after  the  doctor  goes,  I  guess,"  Mary 
Lou  sighed. 

"Well,  then  I'll  wait  for  you.  I'll  run  up  and  see 
Mary  Lord  a  few  minutes.  You  stop  in  for  me  when 
you're  ready." 

And  Susan,  blowing  her  cousin  an  airy  kiss,  ran 
noiselessly  up  the  last  flight  of  stairs,  and  rapped  on 
the  door  of  the  big  upper  front  bedroom. 

This  room  had  been  Mary  Lord's  world  for  ten 
long  years.  The  invalid  was  on  a  couch  just  opposite  the 
door,  and  looked  up  as  Susan  entered.  Her  dark, 
rather  heavy  face  brightened  instantly. 

"Sue!  I  was  afraid  it  was  poor  Mrs.  Parker  ready 
to  weep  about  Loretta,"  she  said  eagerly.  "Come  in, 
you  nice  child!  Tell  me  something  cheerful!" 

"Raw  ginger  is  a  drug  on  the  market,"  said  Susan 
gaily.  "Here,  I  brought  you  some  roses." 

"And  I  have  eleven  guesses  who  sent  them,"  laughed 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  115 

Miss  Lord,  drinking  in  the  sweetness  and  beauty  of 
the  great  pink  blossoms  hungrily.  "When'd  they 
come?" 

"Just  before  dinner!"  Susan  told  her.  Turning  to 
the  invalid's  sister  she  said:  "Miss  Lydia,  you're  busy, 
and  I'm  disturbing  you." 

"I  wish  you'd  disturb  us  a  little  oftener,  then,"  said 
Lydia  Lord,  affectionately.  "I  can  work  all  the  better 
for  knowing  that  Mary  isn't  dying  to  interrupt  me." 

The  older  sister,  seated  at  a  little  table  under  the 
gaslight,  was  deep  in  work. 

"She's  been  doing  that  every  night  this  week,"  said 
Miss  Mary  angrily,  "as  if  she  didn't  have  enough  to 
do  I" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Susan.  Miss  Lydia  threw  down 
her  pen,  and  stretched  her  cramped  fingers. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Lawrence's  sister  is  going  to  be  mar- 
ried," she  explained,  "and  the  family  wants  an  alpha- 
betic list  of  friends  to  send  the  announcements  to. 
This  is  the  old  list,  and  this  the  new  one,  and  here's 
his  list,  and  some  names  her  mother  jotted  down, — 
they're  all  to  be  put  in  order.  It's  quite  a  job." 

"At  double  pay,  of  course,"  Miss  Mary  said  bit- 
terly. 

"I  should  hope  so,"  Susan  added. 

Miss  Lydia  merely  smiled  humorously,  benevolently, 
over  her  work. 

"All  in  the  day's  work,  Susan." 

"All  in  your  grandmother's  foot,"  Susan  said,  in- 
elegantly. Miss  Lydia  laughed  a  little  reproachfully, 
(  but  the  invalid's  rare,  hearty  laugh  would  have  atoned 
to  her  for  a  far  more  irreverent  remark. 

"And  no  'Halma'?"  Susan  said,  suddenly.  For  the 
invalid  lived  for  her  game,  every  night.  "Why  didn't 

you  tell  me.  I  could  have  come  up  every  night " 

She  got  out  the  board,  set  up  the  men,  shook  Mary's 
pillows  and  pushed  them  behind  the  aching  back. 
"Come  on,  Macduff,"  said  she. 

"Oh,  Susan,  you  angel  I"  Mary  Lord  settled  herself 


116  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

for  an  hour  of  the  keenest  pleasure  she  ever  knew. 
She  reared  herself  in  her  pillows,  her  lanky  yellow 
hand  hovered  over  the  board,  she  had  no  eyes  for 
anything  but  the  absurd  little  red  and  yellow  men. 

She  was  a  bony  woman,  perhaps  forty-five,  with  hair 
cut  across  her  lined  forehead  in  the  deep  bang  that  had 
been  popular  in  her  girlhood.  It  was  graying  now,  as 
were  the  untidy  loops  of  hair  above  it,  her  face  was 
yellow,  furrowed,  and  the  long  neck  that  disappeared 
into  her  little  flannel  bed-sack  was  lined  and  yellowed 
too.  She  lay,  restlessly  and  incessantly  shifting  her- 
self, in  a  welter  of  slipping  quilts  and  loose  blankets, 
with  her  shoulders  propped  by  fancy  pillows, — some 
made  of  cigar-ribbons,  one  of  braided  strips  of  black 
and  red  satin,  one  in  a  shield  of  rough,  coarse  knotted 
lace,  and  one  with  a  little  boy  printed  in  color  upon  it, 
a  boy  whose  trousers  were  finished  with  real  tin  but- 
tons. Mary  Lord  was  always  the  first  person  Susan 
thought  of  when  the  girls  in  the  office  argued,  igno- 
rantly  and  vigorously,  for  or  against  the  law  of  com- 
pensation. Here,  in  this  stuffy  boarding-house  room, 
the  impatient,  restless  spirit  must  remain,  chained  and 
tortured  day  after  day  and  year  after  year,  her  only 
contact  with  the  outer  world  brought  by  the  little  pri- 
vate governess, — her  sister — who  was  often  so  tired 
and  so  dispirited  when  she  reached  home,  that  even 
her  gallant  efforts  could  not  hide  her  depression  from 
the  keen  eyes  of  the  sick  woman.  Lydia  taught  the 
three  small  children  of  one  of  the  city's  richest  women, 
and  she  and  Mary  were  happy  or  were  despondent  in 
exact  accord  with  young  Mrs.  Lawrence's  mood.  If 
the  great  lady  were  ungracious,  were  cold,  or  dis- 
satisfied, Lydia  trembled,  for  the  little  .sum  she  earned 
by  teaching  was  more  than  two-thirds  of  all  that  she 
and  Mary  had.  If  Mrs.  Lawrence  were  in  a  happier 
frame  of  mind,  Lydia  brightened,  and  gratefully  ac- 
cepted the  occasional  flowers  or  candy,  that  meant  to 
both  sisters  so  much  more  than  mere  carnations  or 
mere  chocolates. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  117 

But  if  Lydia's  life  was  limited,  what  of  Mary,  whose 
brain  was  so  active  that  merely  to  read  of  great  and 
successful  deeds  tortured  her  like  a  pain?  Just  to  have 
a  little  share  of  the  world's  work,  just  to  dig  and  water 
the  tiniest  garden,  just  to  be  able  to  fill  a  glass  for 
herself  with  water,  or  to  make  a  pudding,  or  to  wash 
up  the  breakfast  dishes,  would  have  been  to  her  the 
most  exquisite  delight  in  the  world. 

As  it  was  she  lay  still,  reading,  sometimes  writing  a 
letter,  or  copying  something  for  Lydia,  always  eager 
for  a  game  of  "Halma"  or  "Parchesi,"  a  greater  part 
of  the  time  out  of  pain,  and  for  a  certain  part  of  the 
twenty-four  hours  tortured  by  the  slow-creeping 
agonies  that  waited  for  her  like  beasts  in  the  dark- 
ness of  every  night.  Sometimes  Susan,  rousing  from 
the  deep  delicious  sleep  that  always  befriended  her, 
would  hear  in  the  early  morning,  rarely  earlier  than 
two  o'clock  or  later  than  four,  the  hoarse  call  in  the 
front  room,  "Lyddie !  Lyddie!"  and  the  sleepy  answer 
and  stumbling  feet  of  the  younger  sister,  as  she  ran 
for  the  merciful  pill  that  would  send  Miss  Mary,  spent 
with  long  endurance,  into  deep  and  heavenly  sleep. 
Susan  had  two  or  three  times  seen  the  cruel  trial  of 
courage  that  went  before  the  pill,  the  racked  and  twist- 
ing body,  the  bitten  lip,  the  tortured  eyes  on  the  clock. 

Twice  or  three  times  a  year  Miss  Mary  had  very  bad 
times,  and  had  to  see  her  doctor.  Perhaps  four  times 
a  month  Miss  Lydia  beamed  at  Susan  across  the  break- 
fast table,  "No  pill  last  night !"  These  were  the  varia- 
tions of  the  invalid's  life. 

Susan,  while  Mary  considered  her  moves  to-night, 
studied  the  room  idly,  the  thousand  crowded,  useless 
little  possessions  so  dear  to  the  sick;  the  china  statu- 
ettes, the  picture  post-cards,  the  photographs  and 
match-boxes  and  old  calendars,  the  dried  "whispering- 
grass"  and  the  penwipers.  Her  eyes  reached  an  old 
photograph;  Susan  knew  it  by  heart.  It  represented 
an  old-fashioned  mansion,  set  in  a  sweeping  lawn, 
shaded  by  great  trees.  Before  one  wing  an  open  bar- 


118  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

ouche  stood,  with  driver  and  lackey  on  the  box,  and 
behind  the  carriage  a  group  of  perhaps  ten  or  a  dozen 
colored  girls  and  men  were  standing  on  the  steps,  in 
the  black-and-white  of  house  servants.  On  the  wide 
main  steps  of  the  house  were  a  group  of  people,  ladies 
in  spreading  ruffled  skirts,  a  bearded,  magnificent  old 
man,  young  men  with  heavy  mustaches  of  the  sixties, 
and  some  small  children  in  stiff  white.  Susan  knew 
that  the  heavy  big  baby  on  a  lady's  lap  was  Lydia, 
and  that  among  the  children  Mary  was  to  be  found, 
with  her  hair  pushed  straight  back  under  a  round-comb, 
and  scallops  on  the  top  of  her  high  black  boots.  The 
old  man  was  her  grandfather,  and  the  house  the  ances- 
tral home  of  the  Lords  .  .  .  Whose  fault  was  it  that 
just  a  little  of  that  ease  had  not  been  safely  guarded 
for  these  two  lonely  women,  Susan  wondered.  What 
was  the  secret  of  living  honestly,  with  the  past,  with 
the  present,  with  those  who  were  to  come? 

"Your  play.  Wake  up,  Sue!"  laughed  Mary.  "I 
have  you  now,  I  can  yard  in  seven  moves !" 

"No  skill  to  that,"  said  Susan  hardily,  "just  sheer 
luck!" 

"Oh  you  wicked  story-teller!"  Mary  laughed  de- 
lightedly, and  they  set  the  men  for  another  game. 

"No,  but  you're  really  the  lucky  one,  Sue,"  said  the 
older  woman  presently. 

"/  lucky!"  and  Susan  laughed  as  she  moved  her 
man. 

"Well,  don't  you  think  you  are?" 

"I  think  I'm  darned  unlucky!"  the  girl  declared 
seriously. 

"Here — here!  Descriptive  adjectives!"  called  Lydia, 
but  the  others  paid  no  heed. 

"Sue,  how  can  you  say  so!" 

"Well,  I  admit,  Miss  Mary,"  Susan  said  with  pretty 
gravky,  "that  God  hasn't  sent  me  wliat  he  has  sent 
you  to  bear,  for  some  inscrutable  reason, — I'd  go  mad 
if  He  had!  But  I'm  poor " 

"Now,    look    here,"    Mary    said    authoritatively. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  119 

;<You're  young,  aren't  you?  And  you're  good-looking, 
aren't  you?" 

"Don't  mince  matters,  Miss  Mary.  Say  beautiful," 
giggled  Susan. 

"I'm  in  earnest.  You're  the  youngest  and  prettiest 
woman  in  this  house.  You  have  a  good  position,  and 
good  health,  and  no  encumbrances " 

"I  have  a  husband  and  three  children  in  the  Mis- 
sion, Miss  Mary.  I  never  mentioned  them " 

"Oh,  behave  yourself,  Sue!  Well!  And,  more 
than  that,  you  have — we  won't  mention  one  special 
friend,  because  I  don't  want  to  make  you  blush,  but 
at  least  a  dozen  good  friends  among  the  very  richest 
people  of  society.  You  go  to  lunch  with  Miss  Emily 
Saunders,  and  to  Burlingame  with  Miss  Ella  Saunders, 
you  get  all  sorts  of  handsome  presents — is'nt  this  all 
true?" 

"Absolutely,"  said  Susan  so  seriously,  so  sadly,  that 
the  invalid  laid  a  bony  cold  one  over  the  smooth  brown 
one  arrested  on  the  "Halma"  board. 

"Why,  I  wasn't  scolding  you,  dearie!"  she  said 
kindly.  "I  just  wanted  you  to  appreciate  your  bless- 
ings!" 

"I  know — I  know,"  Susan  answered,  smiling  with  an 
effort.  She  went  to  bed  a  little  while  later  profoundly 
depressed. 

It  was  all  true,  it  was  all  true !  But,  now  that  she 
had  it,  it  seemed  so  little  1  She  was  beginning  to 
be  popular  in  the  Saunders  set, — her  unspoiled  fresh- 
ness appealed  to  more  than  one  new  friend,  as  it  had 
appealed  to  Peter  Coleman  and  to  Emily  and  Ella 
Saunders.  She  was  carried  off  for  Saturday  matinees, 
she  was  in  demand  for  one  Sunday  after  another. 
She  was  always  gay,  always  talkative,  she  had  her 
value,  as  she  herself  was  beginning  to  perceive.  And, 
although  she  met  very  few  society  men,  just  now, 
being  called  upon  to  amuse  feminine  luncheons  or  stay 
overnight  with  Emily  when  nobody  else  was  at  home, 
still  her  social  progress  seemed  miraculously  swift  to 


120  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Thorny,  to  Billy  and  Georgia  and  Virginia,  even  some- 
times to  herself.  But  she  wanted  more — more — more ! 
She  wanted  to  be  one  of  this  group  herself,  to  patron- 
ize instead  of  accepting  patronage. 

Slowly  her  whole  nature  changed  to  meet  this  new 
hope.  She  made  use  of  every  hour  now,  discarded 
certain  questionable  expressions,  read  good  books, 
struggled  gallantly  with  her  natural  inclination  to  pro- 
crastinate. Her  speech  improved,  the  tones  of  her 
voice,  her  carriage,  she  wore  quiet  colors  now,  and 
became  fastidious  in  the  matter  of  belts  and  cuffs,  but- 
tons and  collars  and  corsets.  She  diverted  Mary  Lou 
by  faithfully  practicing  certain  beautifying  calisthenics 
at  night. 

Susan  was  not  deceived  by  the  glittering,  prismatic 
thing  known  as  Society.  She  knew  that  Peter  Cole- 
man's  and  Emily  Saunders'  reverence  for  it  was  quite 
the  weakest  thing  in  their  respective  characters.  She 
knew  that  Ella's  boasted  family  was  no  better  than  her 
own,  and  that  Peter's  undeniable  egoism  was  the  nat- 
ural result  of  Peter's  up-bringing,  and  that  Emily's 
bright  unselfish  interest  in  her,  whatever  it  had  now 
become,  had  commenced  with  Emily's  simple  desire 
to  know  Peter  through  Susan,  and  have  an  excuse  to 
come  frequently  to  Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter's  when 
Peter  was  there. 

Still,  she  could  not  divest  these  three  of  the  old 
glory  of  her  first  impressions.  She  liked  Emily  and 
Ella  none  the  less  because  she  understood  them  bet- 
ter, and  felt  that,  if  Peter  had  his  human  weaknesses, 
he  was  all  the  nearer  her  for  that. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  would  not  allow  her  to  dine  down- 
town with  him  alone.  Susan  laughed  at  the  idea  that 
she  could  possibly  do  anything  questionable,  but  kept 
the  rule  faithfully,  and,  if  she  went  to  the  theater  alone 
with  Peter,  never  let  him  take  her  to  supper  after- 
ward. But  they  had  many  a  happy  tea-hour  together, 
and  on  Sundays  lunched  in  Sausalito,  roamed  over  the 
lovely  country  roads,  perhaps  stopped  for  tea  at  the 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  121 

Carrolls',  or  came  back  to  the  city  and  had  it  at  the 
quiet  Palace.  Twice  Peter  was  asked  to  dine  at  Mrs. 
Lancaster's,  but  on  the  first  occasion  he  and  Susan 
were  begged  by  old  Mrs.  Baxter  to  come  and  amuse 
her  loneliness  instead,  and  on  the  second  Susan  tele- 
phoned at  the  last  moment  to  say  that  Alfie  was  at 
home  and  that  Auntie  wanted  to  ask  Peter  to  come 
some  other  time. 

Alfie  was  at  home  for  a  dreadful  week,  during  which 
the  devoted  women  suffered  agonies  of  shame  and 
terror.  After  that  he  secured,  in  the  miraculous  way 
that  Alfie  always  did  secure,  another  position  and  went 
away  again. 

"1  can  stand  Alfie,"  said  Susan  to  Billy  in  strong 
disgust.  "But  it  does  make  me  sick  to  have  Auntie 
blaming  his  employers  for  firing  him,  and  calling  him 
a  dear  unfortunate  boy !  She  said  to  me  to-day  that  the 
other  clerks  were  always  jealous  of  Alfie,  and  tried  to 
lead  him  astray!  Did  you  ever  hear  such  blindness!" 

"She's  always  talked  that  way,"  Billy  answered, 
surprised  at  her  vehemence.  "You  used  to  talk  that 
way  yourself.  You're  the  one  that  has  changed." 

Winter  came  on  rapidly.  The  mornings  were  dark 
and  cold  now  when  Susan  dressed,  the  office  did  not 
grow  comfortably  warm  until  ten  o'clock,  and  the  girls 
wore  their  coats  loose  across  their  shoulders  as  they 
worked. 

Sometimes  at  noon  Miss  Thornton  and  Susan  fared 
forth  into  the  cold,  sunny  streets,  and  spent  the  last 
half  of  the  lunch-hour  in  a  brisk  walk.  They  went 
into  the  high-vaulted  old  Post  Street  Library  for  books, 
threaded  their  way  along  Kearney  Street,  where  the 
noontide  crowd  was  gaily  ebbing  and  flowing,  and 
loitered  at  the  Flower  Market,  at  Lotta's  Fountain, 
drinking  in  the  glory  of  violets  and  daffodils,  under  the 
winter  sun.  Now  and  then  they  lunched  uptown  at 
some  inexpensive  restaurant  that  was  still  quiet  and 
refined.  The  big  hotels  were  far  too  costly  but  there 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

were  several  pretty  lunchrooms,  "The  Bird  of  Para- 
dise," "The  London  Tearoom,"  and,  most  popular  of 
all,  "The  Ladies  Exchange." 

The  girls  always  divided  a  twenty-five-cent  entree  be- 
tween them,  and  each  selected  a  ten-cent  dessert,  leav- 
ing a  tip  for  the  waitress  out  of  their  stipulated  half- 
dollar.  It  was  among  the  unwritten  laws  that  the  meal 
must  appear  to  more  than  satisfy  both. 

"Thorny,  you've  got  to  have  the  rest  of  this  rice!" 
Susan  would  urge,  gathering  the  slender  remains  of 
"Curried  chicken  family  style"  in  her  serving  spoon. 

"Honestly,  Susan,  I  couldn't !  I've  got  more  than  I 
want  here,"  was  the  orthodox  response. 

"It'll  simply  go  to  waste  here,"  Susan  always  said, 
but  somehow  it  never  did.  The  girls  loitered  over 
these  meals,  watching  the  other  tables,  and  the  women 
who  came  to  the  counters  to  buy  embroidered  baby- 
sacques,  and  home-made  cakes  and  jellies. 

"Wouldn't  you  honestly  like  another  piece  of  plum 
pie,  Sue?"  Thorny  would  ask. 

"I?     Oh,  I  couldn't!     But  you  have  one,  Thorny 

"I  simply  couldn't!"  So  it  was  time  to  ask  for  the 
check. 

They  were  better  satisfied,  if  less  elegantly  sur- 
rounded, when  they  went  to  one  of  the  downtown 
markets,  and  had  fried  oysters  for  lunch.  Susan  loved 
the  big,  echoing  places,  cool  on  the  hottest  day,  never 
too  cold,  lined  with  long  rows  of  dangling,  picked 
fowls,  bright  with  boxes  of  apples  and  oranges.  The 
air  was  pleasantly  odorous  of  cheeses  and  cooked 
meats,  cocks  crowed  unseen  in  crates  and  cages,  bare- 
headed boys  pushed  loaded  trucks  through  the  narrow 
aisles.  Susan  and  Miss  Thornton  would  climb  a  short 
flight  of  whitewashed  stairs  to  a  little  lunch-room  over 
one  of  the  oyster  stalls.  Here  they  could  sit  at  a 
small  table,  and  look  down  at  the  market,  the  shoppers 
coming  and  going,  stout  matrons  sampling  sausages 
and  cheeses,  and  Chinese  cooks,  bareheaded,  bare- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  123 

ankled,  dressed  in  dark  blue  duck,  selecting  broilers 
and  roasts. 

Their  tablecloth  here  was  coarse,  but  clean,  and  a 
generous  management  supplied  several  sauces,  a  thick 
china  bowl  of  crackers,  a  plate  heaped  with  bread, 
salty  yellow  butter,  and  saucers  of  boiled  shrimps  with 
which  guests  might  occupy  themselves  until  the  arrival 
of  the  oysters.  Presently  the  main  dish  arrived,  some 
forty  small,  brown,  buttery  oysters  on  each  smoking 
hot  plate.  No  pretense  was  necessary  at  this  meal, 
there  w/as  enough,  and  more  than  enough.  Susan's 
cheeks  would  burn  rosily  all  afternoon.  She  and 
Thorny  departing  never  failed  to  remark,  "How  can 
they  do  it  for  twenty-five  cents?"  and  sometimes  spent 
the  walk  back  to  the  office  in  a  careful  calculation  of: 
exactly  what  the  meal  had  cost  the  proprietor. 

"Did  he  send  you  a  Christmas  present?"  asked 
Thorny  one  January  day,  when  an  irregular  bill  had 
brought  her  to  Susan's  desk. 

"Who?  Oh,  Mr.  Coleman?"  Susan  looked  up  in- 
nocently. "Yes,  yes  indeed  he  did.  A  lovely  silver 
bureau  set.  Auntie  was  in  two  minds  about  letting  me 
keep  it."  She  studied  the  bill.  "Well,  that's  the  reg- 
ular H.  B.  &  H.  Talcum  Powder,"  she  said,  "only 
he's  made  them  a  price  on  a  dozen  gross.  Send  it 
back,  and  have  Mr.  Phil  O.  K.  it!' 

"A  silver  set !    You  lucky  kid !    How  many  pieces  ?" 

"Oh,  everything.  Even  toilet-water  bottles,  and  a 
hatpin  holder.  Gorgeous."  Susan  wrote  "Mr.  P. 
Hunter  will  please  O.  K."  in  the  margin  against  the 
questioned  sale. 

"You  take  it  pretty  coolly,  Sue,"  Miss  Thornton 
said,  curiously. 

"It's  cool  weather,  Thorny  dear."  Susan  smiled, 
locked  her  firm  young  hands  idly  on  her  ledger,  eyed 
Miss  Thornton  honestly.  "How  should  I  take  it?" 
said  she. 

The  silver  set  had  filled  all  Mrs.  Lancaster's  house 
with  awed  admiration  on  Christmas  Day,  but  Susan 


124  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

could  not  forget  that  Peter  had  been  out  of  town  on 
both  holidays,  and  that  she  had  gained  her  only  knowl- 
edge of  his  whereabouts  from  the  newspapers.  A 
handsome  present  had  been  more  than  enough  to  sat- 
isfy her  wildest  dreams,  the  year  before.  It  was  not 
enough  now. 

"S'listen,  Susan.     You're  engaged  to  him?" 

"Honestly, — cross  my  heart! — I'm  not." 

"But  you  will  be  when  he  asks  you?" 

"Thorny,  aren't  you  awful!"  Susan  laughed;  colored 
brilliantly. 

"Well,  wouldn't  you  ?"  the  other  persisted. 

"I  don't  suppose  one  thinks  of  those  things  until 
they  actually  happen,"  Susan  said  slowly,  wrinkling  a 
thoughtful  forehead.  Thorny  watched  her  for  a  mo- 
ment with  keen  interest,  then  her  own  face  softened 
suddenly. 

"No,  of  course  you  don't!"  she  agreed  kindly.  "Do 
you  mind  my  asking,  Sue?" 

"No-o-o!"  Susan  reassured  her.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  was  glad  when  any  casual  onlooker  confirmed 
her  own  secret  hopes  as  to  the  seriousness  of  Peter 
Coleman's  intention. 

Peter  took  her  to  church  on  Easter  Sunday,  and 
afterward  they  went  to  lunch  with  his  uncle  and  aunt, 
spent  a  delightful  rainy  afternoon  with  books  and  the 
piano,  and,  in  the  casual  way  that  only  wealth  makes 
possible,  were  taken  downtown  to  dinner  by  old  Mr. 
Baxter  at  six  o'clock.  Taking  her  home  at  nine  o'clock, 
Peter  told  her  that  he  was  planning  a  short  visit  to 
Honolulu  with  the  Harvey  Brocks.  "Gee,  I  wish  you 
were  going  along!"  he  said. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  fun!"  Susan  agreed. 

"Well,  say!  Mrs.  Brock  would  love  it "  he 

began  eagerly. 

"Oh,  Peter,  don't  talk  nonsense!"  Susan  felt,  at  a 
moment  like  this,  that  she  actually  disliked  him. 

"I  suppose  it  couldn't  be  tvorked,"  he  said  sadly. 
And  no  more  of  it  was  said. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  125 

He  came  into  the  office  but  once  that  week.  Late  in 
a  summer-like  afternoon  Susan  looked  down  at  Mr. 
Baxter's  office  to  see  Peter  spreading  his  steamer 
tickets  on  the  desk.  He  looked  up  and  laughed  at 
her,  and  later  ran  up  to  the  deck  for  a  few  minutes  to 
say  good-bye.  They  said  it  laughingly,  among  the 
hot-water  bags  and  surgical  accessories,  but  when  Susan 
went  back  to  her  desk  the  laughter  had  died  from  her 
eyes. 

It  was  an  unseasonably  warm  spring  day,  she  was 
wearing  the  first  shirtwaist  of  the  year,  and  had  come 
downtown  that  morning  through  the  fresh  early  air 
on  the  dummy-front.  It  was  hard  to-day  to  be  shut 
up  in  a  stuffy  office.  Outside,  the  watercarts  were  mak- 
ing the  season's  first  trip  along  Front  Street  and  pedes- 
trians chose  the  shady  side  to-day.  Susan  thought  of 
the  big  Oriental  liner,  the  awnings  that  shaded  the 
decks,  the  exquisitely  cool  and  orderly  little  cabins,  the 
green  water  rushing  alongside.  And  for  her  the  lan- 
guorous bright  afternoon  had  lost  its  charm. 

She  did  not  see  Peter  Coleman  again  for  a  long 
time.  Summer  came,  and  Susan  went  on  quiet  little 
Sunday  picnics  to  the  beach  with  Auntie  and  Mary  Lou, 
or  stayed  at  home  and  pressed  her  collars  and  washed 
her  hair.  Once  or  twice  she  and  Billy  went  over  to 
the  Carrolls'  Sausalito  home,  to  spend  a  happy,  quiet 
week-end.  Susan  gossiped  with  the  busy,  cheerful 
mother  over  the  dish-pan,  played  "Parchesi"  with  fif- 
teen-year-old Jim  and  seventeen-year-old  Betsey, 
reveled  in  a  confidential,  sisterly  attitude  with  hand- 
some Phil,  the  oldest  of  the  half-dozen,  and  lay  awake 
deep  into  the  warm  nights  to  talk,  and  talk,  and  talk 
with  Josephine,  who,  at  her  own  age,  seemed  to  Susan 
a  much  finer,  stronger  and  more  developed  character. 
If  Anna,  the  lovely  serious  oldest  daughter,  happened 
to  be  at  home  on  one  of  her  rare  absences  from  the 
training-hospital,  Susan  became  her  shadow.  She 
loved  few  people  in  the  world  as  she  loved  Anna  Car- 


126  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

roll.  But,  in  a  lesser  degree,  she  loved  them  all,  and 
found  these  hours  in  the  shabby,  frugal  little  home 
among  the  very  happiest  of  a  lonely  summer. 

About  once  a  month  she  was  carried  off  by  the 
Saunders,  in  whose  perfectly  appointed  guest-room  she 
was  by  this  time  quite  at  home.  The  Fourth  of  July 
fell  on  a  Friday  this  year,  and  Mr.  Brauer,  of  his  own 
volition,  offered  Susan  the  following  day  as  a  holiday, 
too.  So  that  Susan,  with  a  heart  as  light  as  sunshine 
itself,  was  free  to  go  with  Ella  Saunders  for  a  memo- 
rable visit  to  Del  Monte  and  Santa  Cruz. 

It  was  one  of  the  perfect  experiences  only  possible 
to  youth  and  irresponsibility.  They  swam,  they  went 
for  the  Seventeen-Mile  Drive,  they  rode  horseback. 
Ella  knew  every  inch  of  the  great  hotels,  even  some 
of  the  waiters  and  housekeepers.  She  had  the  best 
rooms,  she  saw  that  Susan  missed  nothing.  They 
dressed  for  dinner,  loitered  about  among  the  roses  in 
the  long  twilight,  and  Susan  met  a  young  Englishman 
who  later  wrote  her  three  letters  on  his  way  home  to 
Oxfordshire.  Ella's  exquisite  gowns  had  a  chapter 
all  to  themselves  when  Susan  was  telling  her  cousins 
about  it,  but  Susan  herself  alternated  contentedly 
enough  between  the  brown  linen  with  the  daisy-hat 
and  the  black  net  with  the  pearl  band  in  her  hair.  Miss 
Saunders'  compliments,  her  confidences,  half-intoxi- 
cated the  girl. 

It  was  with  a  little  effort  that  she  came  back  to! 
sober  every-day  living.  She  gave  a  whole  evening  to 
Mary  Lord,  in  her  eagerness  to  share  her  pleasure. 
The  sick  woman  was  not  interested  in  gowns,  but 
she  went  fairly  wild  when  Susan  spoke  of  Mon- 
terey,— the  riotous  gardens  with  their  walls  of  white 
plaster  topped  with  red  pipe,  the  gulls  wheeling 
over  the  little  town,  the  breakers  creaming  in  lazy, 
interlocking  curves  on  the  crescent  of  the  beach,  and 
the  little  old  plaster  church,  with  its  hundred-year-old 
red  altar-cloth,  and  its  altar-step  worn  into  grooves 
from  the  knees  of  the  faithful. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  127 

"Oh,  I  must  see  the  sea  again!"  cried  Mary. 

"Well,  don't  talk  that  way!  You  will,"  Lydia  said 
cheerfully.  But  Susan,  seeing  the  shadow  on  the  kind, 
plain  face,  wished  fchat  she  had  held  her  tongue. 


CHAPTER    VI 

It  was  late  in  July  that  Georgianna  Lancaster 
startled  and  shocked  the  whole  boarding-house  out  of 
its  mid-summer  calm.  Susan,  chronically  affected  by  a 
wish  that  "something  would  happen,"  had  been  some- 
what sobered  by  the  fact  that  in  poor  Virginia's  case 
something  had  happened.  Suddenly  Virginia's  sight, 
accepted  for  years  by  them  all  as  "bad,"  was  very  bad 
indeed.  The  great  eye-doctor  was  angry  that  it  had 
not  been  attended  to  before.  "But  it  wasn't  like  this 
before!"  Virginia  protested  patiently.  She  was  always 
very  patient  after  that,  so  brave  indeed  that  the  ter- 
rible thing  that  was  coming  swiftly  and  inevitably 
down  upon  her  seemed  quite  impossible  for  the  others 
to  credit.  But  sometimes  Susan  heard  her  voice  and 
Mrs.  Lancaster's  voice  rising  and  falling  for  long, 
long  talks  in  the  night.  "I  don't  believe  it !"  said  Susan 
boldly,  finding  this  attitude  the  most  tenable  in  regard 
to  Virginia's  blindness. 

Georgie's  news,  if  startling,  was  not  all  bad.  "Per- 
haps it'll  raise  the  hoodoo  from  all  of  us  old  maids!" 
said  Susan,  inelegantly,  to  Mr.  Oliver.  "O'Connor 
doesn't  look  as  if  he  had  sense  enough  to  raise  any- 
thing, even  the  rent!"  answered  Billy  cheerfully: 

Susan  heard  the  first  of  it  on  a  windy,  gritty  Satur- 
day afternoon,  when  she  was  glad  to  get  indoors,  and 
to  take  off  the  hat  that  had  been  wrenching  her  hair 
about.  She  came  running  upstairs  to  find  Virginia  ly- 
ing limp  upon  the  big  bed,  and  Mary  Lou,  red-eyed 
and  pale,  sitting  in  the  rocking-chair. 

"Come  in,  dear,  and  shut  it,"  said  Mary  Lou,  sigh- 
ing. "Sit  down,  Sue." 

"What  is  it?"  said  Susan  uneasily. 

128 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  129 

"Oh,  Sue !"  began  Virginia,  and  burst  into 

tears. 

"Now,  now,  darling!"  Mary  Lou  patted  her  sister's 
hand. 

"Auntie "  Susan  asked,  turning  pale. 

"No,  Ma's  all  right,"  Mary  Lou  reassured  her, 
"and  there's  nothing  really  wrong,  Sue.  But  Georgie 
— Georgie,  dear,  she's  married  to  Joe  O'Connor !  Isn't 
it  dreadful?" 

"But  Ma's  going  to  have  it  annulled,"  said  Virginia 
instantly. 

"Married!"  Susan  gasped.     "You  mean  engaged!" 

"No,  dear,  married,"  Mary  Lou  repeated,  in  a 
sad,  musical  voice.  "They  were  married  on  Monday 
night- 

"Tell  me !"  commanded  Susan,  her  eyes  flashing  with 
pleasurable  excitement. 

"We  don't  know  much,  Sue  dear.  Georgie's  been 
acting  rather  odd  and  she  began  to  cry  after  breakfast 
this  morning,  and  Ma  got  it  out  of  her.  I  thought  Ma 
would  faint,  and  Georgie  just  screamed.  I  kept  calling 

out  to  Ma  to  be  calm "  Susan  could  imagine  the 

scene.  "So  then  Ma  took  Georgie  upstairs,  and  Jinny 
and  I  worked  around,  and  came  up  here  and  made  up 
this  room.  And  just  before  lunch  Ma  came  up,  and 
— she  looked  chalk-white,  didn't  she,  Jinny?" 

"She  looked — well,  as  white  as  this  spread,"  agreed 
Virginia. 

"Well,  but  what  accounts  for  it!"  gasped  Susan. 
"Is  Georgie  crazy!  Joe  O'Connor!  That  snip!  And 
hasn't  he  an  awful  old  mother,  or  someone,  who  said 
that  she'd  r.ever  let  him  come  home  again  if  he  mar- 
ried?'; 

"Listen,  Sue! — You  haven't  heard  half.  It  seems 
that  they've  been  engaged  for  two  months " 

"They  have!" 

"Yes.  And  on  Monday  night  Joe  showed  Georgie 
that  he'd  gotten  the  license,  and  they  got  thinking  how 
long  it  would  be  before  they  could  be  married,  what 


130  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

with  his  mother,  and  no  prospects  and  all,  and  they 
simply  walked  into  St.  Peter's  and  were  married!" 

"Well,  he'll  have  to  leave  his  mother,  that's  all!" 
said  Susan. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  that's  just  what  they  quarreled  about! 
He  won't." 

"He—won't?" 

"No,  if  you  please!  And  you  can  imagine  how 
furious  that  made  Georgie!  And  when  Ma  told  us 
that,  she  simply  set  her  lips, — you  know  Ma !  And 
then  she  said  that  she  was  going  to  see  Father  Birch 
with  Georgie  this  afternoon,  to  have  it  annulled  at 
once." 

"Without  saying  a  word  to  Joe  1" 

"Oh,  they  went  first  to  Joe's.  Oh,  no,  Joe  is  per- 
fectly willing.  It  was,  as  Ma  says,  a  mistake  from 
beginning  to  end." 

"But  how  can  it  be  annulled,  Mary  Lou?"  Susan 
asked. 

"Well,  I  don't  understand  exactly,"  Mary  Lou 
answered  coloring.  "I  think  it's  because  they  didn't 
go  on  any  honeymoon — they  didn't  set  up  housekeep- 
ing, you  know,  or  something  like  that!" 

"Oh,"  said  Susan,  hastily,  coloring  too.  "But 
wouldn't  you  know  that  if  any  one  of  us  did  get  mar- 
ried, it  would  be  annulled!"  she  said  disgustedly.  The 
others  both  began  to  laugh. 

'  Still,  it  was  all  very  exciting.  When  Georgie  and 
her  mother  got  home  at  dinner-time,  the  bride  was 
pale  and  red-eyed,  excited,  breathing  hard.  She  barely 
touched  her  dinner.  Susan  could  not  keep  her  eyes 
from  the  familiar  hand,  with  its  unfamiliar  ring. 

"I  am  very  much  surprised  and  disappointed  in 
Father  Birch,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  in  a  family  con- 
ference in  the  dining-room  just  after  dinner.  "He 
seems  to  feel  that  the  marriage  may  hold,  which  of 
course  is  too  preposterous!  If  Joe  O'Connor  has  so 
little  appreciation 1" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  131 

"Ma!"  said  Georgie  wearily,  pleadingly. 

"Well,  I  won't,  my  dear."  Mrs.  Lancaster  inter- 
rupted herself  with  a  visible  effort.  "And  if  I  am 
disappointed  in  Joe,"  she  presently  resumed  majestical- 
ly. "I  am  doubly  disappointed  in  Georgie.  My  baby 
— that  I  always  trusted !" 

Young  Mrs.  O'Connor  began  silently,  bitterly,  to 
cry.  Susan  went  to  sit  beside  her,  and  put  a  comforting 
arm  about  her. 

"I  have  looked  forward  to  my  girls'  wedding  days," 
said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  "with  such  feelings  of  joy!  How 
could  I  anticipate  that  my  own  daughter,  secretly, 
could  contract  a  marriage  with  a  man  whose  mother 

"  Her  tone,  low  at  first,  rose  so  suddenly  and 

so  passionately  that  she  was  unable  to  control  it.  The 
veins  about  her  forehead  swelled. 

uMa !"  said  Mary  Lou,  "you  only  lower  yourself  to 
her  level!" 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  won't  let  him  bring  Georgie 
there?"  asked  Susan. 

"Whether  she  would  or  not,"  Mrs.  Lancaster 
answered,  with  admirable  loftiness,  "she  will  not  have 
a  chance  to  insult  my  daughter.  Joe,  I  pity !"  she  added 
majestically.  "He  fell  deeply  and  passionately  in 
love—" 

"With  Loretta,"  supplied  Susan,  innocently. 

"He  never  cared  for  Loretta !"  her  aunt  said  posi- 
tively. "No.  With  Georgie.  And,  not  being  a  gen- 
tleman, we  could  hardly  expect  him  to  act  like  one! 
But  we'll  say  no  more  about  it.  It  will  all  be  over  in 
a  few  days,  and  then  we'll  try  to  forget  it!" 

Poor  Georgie,  it  was  but  a  sorry  romance!  Joe 
telephoned,  Joe  called,  Father  Birch  came,  the  affair 
hung  fire.  Georgie  was  neither  married  nor  free.  Dr. 
O'Connor  would  not  desert  his  mother,  his  mother  re- 
fused to  accept  Georgie.  Georgie  cried  day  and  night, 
merely  asseverating  that  she  hated  Joe,  and  loved  Ma, 
and  she  wished  people  would  let  her  alone. 


132  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

These  were  not  very  cheerful  days  in  the  boarding- 
house.  Billy  Oliver  was  worried  and  depressed,  very 
unlike  himself.  He  had  been .  recently  promoted  to 
the  post  of  foreman,  was  beginning  to  be  a  power 
among  the  men  who  associated  with  him  and,  as  his 
natural  instinct  for  leadership  asserted  itself,  he  found 
himself  attracting  some  attention  from  the  authori- 
ties themselves.  He  was  questioned  about  the  men, 
about  their  attitude  toward  this  regulation  or  that 
superintendent.  It  was  hinted  that  the  spreading  of 
heresies  among  the  laborers  was  to  be  promptly  dis- 
couraged. The  men  were  not  to  be  invited  to  express 
themselves  as  to  hours,  pay  and  the  advantages  of 
unifying.  In  other  words,  Mr.  William  Oliver,  unless 
he  became  a  little  less  interested  and  less  active  in 
the  wrongs  and  rights  of  his  fellow-men  in  the  iron- 
works, might  be  surprised  by  a  request  to  carry  himself 
and  his  public  sentiments  elsewhere. 

Susan,  in  her  turn,  was  a  little  disturbed  by  the 
rumor  that  Front  Office  was  soon  to  be  abolished;  be- 
gun for  a  whim,  it  might  easily  be  ended  for  another 
whim.  For  herself  she  did  not  very  much  care;  a 
certain  confidence  in  the  future  was  characteristic  of 
her,  but  she  found  herself  wondering  what  would  be- 
come of  the  other  girls,  Miss  Sherman  and  Miss  Mur- 
ray and  Miss  Cottle. 

She  felt  far  more  deeply  the  pain  that  Peter's  atti- 
tude gave  her,  a  pain  that  gnawed  at  her  heart  day 
and  night.  He  was  home  from  Honolulu  now,  and 
had  sent  her  several  curious  gifts  from  Hawaii,  but, 
except  for  distant  glimpses  in  the  office,  she  had  not 
seen  him. 

One  evening,  just  before  dinner,  as  she  was  dressing 
and  thinking  sadly  of  the  weeks,  the  months,  that  had 
passed  since  their  last  happy  evening  together,  Lydia 
Lord  came  suddenly  into  the  room.  The  little  gov- 
erness looked  white  and  sick,  and  shared  her  distress 
with  Susan  in  a  few  brief  sentences.  Here  was  Mrs. 
Lawrence's  check  in  her  hand,  and  here  Mrs.  Law- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  I3S 

rente's  note  to  say  that  her  services,  as  governess  to 
Chrissy  and  Donald  and  little  Hazel,  would  be  no 
longer  required.  The  blow  was  almost  too  great  to 
be  realized. 

"But  I  brought  it  on  myself,  Sue,  yes  I  did!"  said 
Lydia,  with  dry  lips.  She  sat,  a  shapeless,  shabby 
figure,  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  pressed  a  veined 
hand  tightly  against  her  knobby  temples,  "I  brought  it 
on  myself.  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it.  I  haven't  given 
Mary  even  a  hint!  Chrissy  has  been  ill,  her  throat 
— they've  had  a  nurse,  but  she  liked  me  to  sit  with 
her  now  and  then.  So  I  was  sitting  there  awhile  this 
morning,  and  Mrs.  Lawrence's  sister,  Miss  Bacon, 
came  in,  and  she  happened  to  ask  me — oh,  if  only  she 
hadn't! — if  I  knew  that  they  meant  to  let  Yates  oper- 
ate on  Chrissy's  throat.  She  said  she  thought  it  was  a 
great  pity.  Oh,  if  only  I'd  held  my  tongue,  fool,  fool, 
fool  that  I  was!"  Miss  Lydia  took  down  her  hand, 
and  regarded  Susan  with  hot,  dry  eyes.  "But,  before 
I  thought,"  she  pursued  distressedly,  "I  said  yes,  I 
thought  so  too, — I  don't  know  just  what  words  I  used, 
but  no  more  than  that!  Chrissy  asked  her  aunt  if  it 
would  hurt,  and  she  said,  'No,  no,  dear!'  and  I  began 
reading.  And  now,  here's  this  note  from  Mrs.  Law- 
rence saying  that  she  cannot  overlook  the  fact  that 
her  conduct  was  criticized  and  discussed  before 

Christina !  And  after  five  years,  Sue!  Here, 

read  it!" 

"Beast!"  Susan  scowled  at  the  monogrammed  sheet, 
and  the  dashing  hand.  Miss  Lydia  clutched  her  wrist 
with  a  hot  hand. 

"What  shall  I  do,  Sue?"  she  asked,  in  agony. 

"Well,  I'd  simply "  Susan  began  boldly  enough. 

But  a  look  at  the  pathetic,  gray-haired  figure  on  the 
bed  stopped  her  short.  She  came,  with  the  glory  of 
her  bright  hair  hanging  loose  about  her  face,  to  sit 
beside  Lydia.  "Really,  I  don't  know,  dear,"  she  said 
gently.  "What  do  you  think?" 

"Sue,  I  don't  know!"    And,  to  Susan's  horror,  poor 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Lydia  twisted  about,  rested  her  arm  on  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  and  began  to  cry. 

"Oh,  these  rich!"  raged  Susan,  attacking  her  hair 
with  angry  sweeps  of  the  brush.  "Do  you  wonder  they 
think  that  the  earth  was  made  for  them  and  Heaven 
too!  They  have  everything!  They  can  dash  you  off 
a  note  that  takes  away  your  whole  income,  they  can 
'saunter  in  late  to  church  on  Easter  Sunday  and  rustle 
into  their  big  empty  pews,  when  the  rest  of  us  have 
been  standing  in  the  aisles  for  half  an  hour;  they  can 
call  in  a  doctor  for  a  cut  finger,  when  Mary  has  to 

fight  perfect  agonies  before  she  dares  afford  it 

Don't  mind  me,"  she  broke  off,  penitently,  "but  let's 
think  what's  to  be  done.  You  couldn't  take  the  public 
school  examinations,  could  you,  Miss  Lydia?  It  would 
be  so  glorious  to  simply  let  Mrs.  Lawrence  slide !" 

"I  always  meant  to  do  that  some  day,"  said  Lydia, 
wiping  her  eyes  and  gulping,  "but  it  would  take  time. 

And  meanwhile And  there  are  Mary's  doctor's 

bills,  and  the  interest  on  our  Piedmont  lot "  For 

the  Lord  sisters,  for  patient  years,  had  been  paying 
interest,  and  an  occasional  installment,  on  a  barren 
little  tract  of  land  nine  blocks  away  from  the  Piedmont 
trolley. 

"You  could  borrow "  began  Susan. 

But  Lydia  was  more  practical.  She  dried  her  eyes, 
straightened  her  hair  and  collar,  and  came,  with  her 
own  quiet  dignity,  to  the  discussion  of  possibilities. 
She  was  convinced  that  Mrs.  Lawrence  had  written  in 
haste,  and  was  already  regretting  it. 

"No,  she's  too  proud  ever  to  send  for  me,"  she 
assured  Susan,  when  the  girl  suggested  their  simply 
biding  their  time,  "but  I  know  that  by  taking  me  back 
at  once  she  would  save  herself  any  amount  of  annoy- 
ance and  time.  So  I'd  better  go  and  see  her  to-night, 
for  by  to-morrow  she  might  have  committed  herself  to 
a  change." 

"But  you  hate  to  go,  don't  you?"  Susan  asked, 
watching  her  keenly. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  135 

"Ah,  well,  it's  unpleasant  of  course,"  Lydia  said 
simply.  "She  may  be  unwilling  to  accept  my  apology. 
She  may  not  even  see  me.  One  feels  so — so  humiliated, 
Sue." 

"In  that  case,  I'm  going  along  to  buck  you  up,"  said 
Susan,  cheerfully. 

In  spite  of  Lydia's  protests,  go  she  did.  They 
walked  to  the  Lawrence  home  in  a  night  so  dark  that 
Susan  blinked  when  they  finally  entered  the  magnifi- 
cent, lighted  hallway. 

The  butler  obviously  disapproved  of  them.  He  did 
not  quite  attempt  to  shut  the  door  on  them,  but  Susan 
felt  that  they  intruded. 

"Mrs.  Lawrence  is  at  dinner,  Miss  Lord,"  he  re- 
minded Lydia,  gravely. 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  this  is  rather — important, 
Hughes,"  said  Lydia,  clearing  her  throat  nervously. 

"You  had  better  see  her  at  the  usual  time  to-mor- 
row," suggested  the  butler,  smoothly.  Susan's  face 
burned.  She  longed  to  snatch  one  of  the  iron  Japanese 
swords  that  decorated  the  hall,  and  with  it  prove  to 
Hughes  that  his  insolence  was  appreciated.  But  more 
reasonable  tactics  must  prevail. 

"Will  you  say  that  I  am  here,  Hughes?"  Miss  Lord 
asked  quietly. 

"Presently,"  he  answered,  impassively. 

Susan  followed  him  for  a  few  steps  across  the  hall, 
spoke  to  him  in  a  low  tone. 

"Too  bad  to  ask  you  to  interrupt  her,  Mr.  Hughes," 
said  she,  in  her  friendly  little  way,  "but  you  know  Miss 
Lord's  sister  has  been  having  one  of  her  bad  times, 

and  of  course  you  understand ?"  The  blue  eyes 

and  the  pitiful  little  smile  conquered.  Hughes  became 
human. 

"Certainly,  Miss,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "but  Madam  is 
going  to  the  theater  to-night,  and  it's  no  time  to  see 
her." 

"I  know,"  Susan  interposed,  sympathetically. 


136  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"However,  ye  may  depend  upon  my  taking  the  best 
moment,"  Hughes  said,  before  disappearing,  and  when 
he  came  back  a  few  moments  later,  he  was  almost 
gracious. 

"Mrs.  Lawrence  says  that  if  you  wish  to  see  her 
you'll  kindly  wait,  Miss  Lord.  Step  in  here,  will  you, 
please?  Will  ye  be  seated,  ladies?  Miss  Chrissy's 
been  asking  for  you  the  whole  evening,  Miss  Lord." 

"Is  that  so?"  Lydia  asked,  brightening.  They  waited, 
with  fast-beating  hearts,  for  what  seemed  a  long  time. 
The  great  entrance  to  the  flower-filled  embrasure  that 
led  to  the  dining-room  was  in  full  view  from  where 
they  stood,  and  when  Mrs.  Lawrence,  elegantly  emaci- 
ated, wonderfully  gowned  and  jeweled,  suddenly  came 
out  into  the  tempered  brilliance  of  the  electric  lights, 
both  girls  went  to  meet  her. 

Susan's  heart  burned  for  Lydia,  faltering  out  her  ex- 
planation, in  the  hearing  of  the  butler. 

"This  is  hardly  the  time  to  discuss  this,  Miss  Lord," 
Mrs.  Lawrence  said  impatiently,  "but  I  confess  I  am 
surprised  that  a  woman  who  apparently  valued  her 
position  in  my  house  should  jeopardize  it  by  such 
an  extraordinary  indiscretion " 

Susan's  heart  sank.     No  hope  here! 

But  at  this  moment  some  six  or  seven  young  people 
followed  Mrs.  Lawrence  out  of  the  dining-room  and 
began  hurriedly  to  assume  their  theater  wraps,  and 
Susan,  with  a  leap  of  her  heart,  recognized  among  them 
Peter  Coleman,  Peter  splendid  in  evening  dress,  with 
a  light  overcoat  over  his  arm,  and  a  silk  hat  in  his 
hand.  His  face  brightened  when  he  saw  her,  he 
dropped  his  coat,  and  came  quickly  across  the  hall, 
hands  outstretched. 

"Henrietta!  say  that  you  remember  your  Percy!' 
he   said  joyously,    and   Susan,   coloring  prettily,   said 
"Oh,  hush!"  as  she  gave  him  her  hand.    A  rapid  fire 
of  questions  followed,  he  was  apparently  unconscious 
of,  or  indifferent  to,  the  curiously  watching  group. 

"Well,  you  two  seem  to  be  great  friends,"   Mrs. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  137 

Lawrence  said  graciously,  turning  from  her  conversa- 
tion with  Miss  Lord. 

"This  is  our  cue  to  sing  'For  you  was  once  My 
Wife,'  Susan!"  Peter  suggested.  Susan  did  not  answer 
him.  She  exchanged  an  amused,  indulgent  look  with 
Mrs.  Lawrence.  Perhaps  the  girl's  quiet  dignity 
rather  surprised  that  lady,  for  she  gave  her  a  keen, 
appraising  look  before  she  asked,  pleasantly: 

"Aren't  you  going  to  introduce  me  to  your  old 
friend,  Peter?;' 

"Not  old  friends,"  Susan  corrected  serenely,  as  they 
were  introduced. 

"But  vurry,  vurry  de-ah,"  supplemented  Peter, 
"aren't  we?" 

"I  hope  Mrs.  Lawrence  knows  you  well  enough  to 
know  how  foolish  you  are,  Peter  1"  Susan  said  com- 
posedly. 

And  Mrs.  Lawrence  said  brightly,  "Indeed  I  do  I 
For  we  are  very  old  friends,  aren't  we,  Peter?" 

But  the  woman's  eyes  still  showed  a  little  puzzle- 
ment. The  exact  position  of  this  girl,  with  her  ready 
"Peter,"  her  willingness  to  disclaim  an  old  friendship, 
her  pleasant  unresponsiveness,  was  a  little  hard  to  de- 
termine. A  lady,  obviously,  a  possible  beauty,  and 
entirely  unknown 

"Well,  we  must  run,"  Mrs.  Lawrence  recalled  her- 
self to  say  suddenly.  "But  why  won't  you  and  Miss 
Lord  run  up  to  see  Chrissy  for  a  few  moments,  Miss 
Brown?  The  poor  kiddy  is  frightfully  dull.  And 
you'll  be  here  in  the  morning  as  usual,  Miss  Lord? 
That's  good.  Good-night!" 

"You  did  that,  Sue,  you  darling!"  exulted  Lydia, 
as  they  ran  down  the  stone  steps  an  hour  later,  and 
locked  arms  to  walk  briskly  along  the  dark  street. 
"Your  knowing  Mr.  Coleman  saved  the  day!"  And, 
in  the  exuberance  of  her  spirits,  she  took  Susan  into 
a  brightly  lighted  little  candy-store,  and  treated  her  to 
ice-cream.  They  carried  some  home  in  a  dripping 


138  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

paper  box  for  Mary,  who  was  duly  horrified,  agitated 
and  rejoiced  over  the  history  of  the  day. 

Through  Susan's  mind,  as  she  lay  wakeful  in  bed 
that  night,  one  scene  after  another  flitted  and  faded. 
She  saw  Mrs.  Lawrence,  glittering  and  supercilious, 
saw  Peter,  glowing  and  gay,  saw  the  butler,  with  his 
attempt  to  be  rude,  and  the  little  daughter  of  the 
house,  tossing  about  in  the  luxurious  pillows  of  her 
big  bed.  She  thought  of  Lydia  Lord's  worn  gloves, 
fumbling  in  her  purse  for  money,  of  Mary  Lord,  so 
gratefully  eating  melting  ice-cream  from  a  pink  saucer, 
with  a  silver  souvenir  spoon! 

Two  different  worlds,  and  she,  Susan,  torn  between 
them !  How  far  she  was  from  Peter's  world,  she  felt 
that  she  had  never  realized  until  to-night.  How  little 
gifts  and  pleasures  signified  from  a  man  whose  life 
was  crowded  with  nothing  else!  How  helpless  she 
was,  standing  by  while  his  life  whirled  him  further  and 
further  away  from  the  dull  groove  in  which  her  own 
feet  were  set! 

Yet  Susan's  evening  had  not  been  without  its  little 
cause  for  satisfaction.  She  had  treated  Peter  coolly, 
with  dignity,  with  reserve,  and  she  had  seen  it  not  only 
spur  him  to  a  sudden  eagerness  to  prove  his  claim  to 
her  friendship,  but  also  have  its  effect  upon  his  hostess. 
This  was  the  clue,  at  last. 

"If  ever  I  have  another  chance,"  decided  Susan, 
"he  won't  have  such  easy  sailing!  He  will  have  to 
work  for  my  friendship  as  if  I  were  the  heiress,  and 
he  a  clerk  in  Front  Office." 

August  was  the  happiest  month  Susan  had  ever 
known,  September  even  better,  and  by  October  every- 
body at  Mrs.  Lancaster's  boarding-house  was  con- 
fidently awaiting  the  news  of  Susan  Brown's  engage- 
ment to  the  rich  Mr.  Peter  Coleman.  Susan  herself 
was  fairly  dazed  with  joy.  She  felt  herself  the  most 
extraordinarily  fortunate  girl  in  the  world. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  139 

Other  matters  also  prospered.  Alfred  Lancaster 
had  obtained  a  position  in  the  Mission,  and  seemed 
mysteriously  inclined  to  hold  it,  and  to  conquer  his 
besetting  weakness.  And  Georgie's  affair  was  at  a 
peaceful  standstill.  Georgie  had  her  old  place  in 
the  house,  was  changed  in  nothing  tangible,  and,  if  she 
cried  a  good  deal,  and  went  about  less  than  before, 
she  was  not  actively  unhappy.  Dr.  O'Connor  came 
once  a  week  to  see  her,  an  uncomfortable  event,  during 
which  Georgie's  mother  was  with  difficulty  restrained 
from  going  up  to  the  parlor  to  tell  Joe  what  she 
thought  of  a  man  who  put  his  mother  before  his  wife. 
Virginia  was  bravely  enduring  the  horrors  of  approach- 
ing darkness.  Susan  reproached  herself  for  her  old 
impatience  with  Jinny's  saintliness;  there  was  no  ques- 
tion of  her  cousin's  courage  and  faith  during  this 
test.  Mary  Lou  was  agitatedly  preparing  for  a  visit 
to  the  stricken  Eastmans,  in  Nevada,  deciding  one  day 
that  Ma  could,  and  the  next  that  Ma  couldn't,  spare 
her  for  the  trip. 

Susan  walked  in  a  golden  cloud.  No  need  to  hunt 
through  Peter's  letters,  to  weigh  his  words, — she  had 
the  man  himself  now  unequivocally  in  the  attitude  of 
lover. 

Or  if,  in  all  honesty,  she  knew  him  to  be  a  little 
less  than  that,  at  least  he  was  placing  himself  in  that 
light,  before  their  little  world.  In  that  world  theatre- 
trips,  candy  and  flowers  have  their  definite  significance, 
the  mere  frequency  with  which  they  were  seen  together 
committed  him,  surely,  to  something!  They  paid 
dinner-calls  together,  they  went  together  to  week-end 
visits  to  Emily  Saunders,  at  least  two  evenings  out  of 
every  week  were  spent  together.  At  any  moment  he 
might  turn  to  her  with  the  little,  little  phrase  that 
would  settle  this  uncertainty  once  and  for  all  1  Indeed 
it  occurred  to  Susan  sometimes  that  he  might  think 
it  already  settled,  without  words.  At  least  once  a  day 
she  flushed,  half-delighted,  half-distressed, — under 
teasing  questions  on  the  subject  from  the  office  force, 


140  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

or  from  the  boarders  at  home;  all  her  world,  appar- 
ently, knew. 

One  day,  in  her  bureau  drawer,  she  found  the  little 
card  that  had  accompanied  his  first  Christmas  gift, 
nearly  two  years  before.  Why  did  a  keen  pain  stir 
her  heart,  as  she  stood  idly  twisting  it  in  her  fingers? 
Had  not  the  promise  of  that  happy  day  been  a  thou- 
sand times  fulfilled? 

But  the  bright,  enchanting  hope  that  card  had 
brought  had  been  so  sickeningly  deferred  I  Two  years ! 
— she  was  twenty-three  now. 

Mrs.  Lancaster,  opening  the  bedroom  door  a  few 
minutes  later,  found  Susan  in  tears,  kneeling  by  the 
bed. 

"Why,  lovey!  loveyl"  Her  aunt  patted  the  bowed 
head.  "What  is  it,  dear?" 

"Nothing!"  gulped  Susan,  sitting  back  on  her  heels, 
and  drying  her  eyes. 

"Not  a  quarrel  with  Peter?" 

"Oh,  auntie,  no!" 

"Well,"  her  aunt  sighed  comfortably,  "of  course 
it's  an  emotional  time,  dear!  Leaving  the  home  nest 

"  Mrs.  Lancaster  eyed  her  keenly,  but  Susan  did 

not  speak.  "Remember,  Auntie  is  to  know  the  first  of 
all!"  she  said  playfully.  Adding,  after  a  moment's 
somber  thought,  "If  Georgie  had  told  Mama,  things 
would  be  very  different  now!" 

"Poor  Georgie!"  Susan  smiled,  and  still  kneeling, 
leaned  on  her  aunt's  knees,  as  Mrs.  Lancaster  sat  back 
in  the  rocking  chair. 

"Poor  Georgie  indeed!"  said  her  mother  vexedly. 
"It's  more  serious  than  you  think,  dear.  Joe  ?;«s  here 
last  night.  It  seems  that  he's  going  to  thar.  doctor's 
convention,  at  Del  Monte  a  week  from  next  Saturday, 
and  he  was  talking  to  Georgie  about  her  going,  too." 

Susan  was  thunderstruck. 

"But,  Auntie,  aren't  they  going  to  be  divorced?" 

Mrs.  Lancaster  rubbed  her  nose  violently. 

"They  are  if  /  have  anything  to  say!"  she  said, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  141 

angrily.  "But,  of  course,  Georgie  has  gotten  herself 
into  this  thing,  and  now  Mama  isn't  going  to  get  any 
help  in  trying  to  get  her  out !  Joe  was  extremely  rude 
and  inconsiderate  about  it,  and  got  the  poor  child  cry- 
ing  1" 

"But,  Auntie,  she  certainly  doesn't  want  to  go!" 

"Certainly  she  doesn't.  And  to  come  home  to  that 
dreadful  woman,  his  mother?  Use  your  senses,  Susan!" 

"Why  don't  you  forbid  Joe  O'Connor  the  house, 
Auntie?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  any  little  whipper-snapper 
of  a  medical  graduate  from  the  Mission  to  dare  to 
think  he  can  come  here,  in  my  own  home,  and  threaten 
me  with  a  lawsuit,  for  alienating  his  wife's  affections!" 
Mrs.  Lancaster  said  forcibly.  "I  never  in  my  life 
heard  such  impudence !" 

"Is  he  mad!"  exclaimed  Susan,  in  a  low,  horrified 
tone. 

"Well,  I  honestly  think  he  is!"  Mrs.  Lancaster, 
gratified  by  this  show  of  indignation,  softened.  "But 
I  didn't  mean  to  distress  you  with  this,  dear,"  said  she. 
"It  will  all  work  out,  somehow.  We  mustn't  have 
any  scandal  in  the  family  just  now,  whatever  happens, 
for  your  sake!" 

Pursuant  to  her  new-formed  resolutions,  Susan  was 
maintaining  what  dignity  she  could  in  her  friendship 
with  Peter  nowadays.    And  when,  in  November,  Peter  ; 
stopped  her  on  the  "deck"  one  day  to  ask  her,  "How', 
about  Sunday,  Sue?     I  have  a  date,  but  I  think  I  can 
get  out  of  it?"  she  disgusted  him  by  answering  briskly, 
"Not  for  me,  Peter.     I'm  positively  engaged  for  Sun- 
day." 

"Oh,  no,  you're  not!"  he  assured  her,  firmly. 

"Oh,  truly  I  am!"  Susan  nodded  a  good-by,  and 
went  humming  into  the  office,  and  that  night  made 
William  Oliver  promise  to  take  her  to  the  Carrolls' 
in  Sausalito  for  the  holiday. 

So  on  a  hazy,  soft  November  morning  they  found 


142  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

themselves  on  the  cable-car  that  in  those  days  slipped 
down  the  steep  streets  of  Nob  Hill,  through  the  odor- 
ous, filthy  gaiety  of  the  Chinese  quarter,  through  the 
warehouse  district,  and  out  across  the  great  crescent  of 
the  water-front.  Billy,  well-brushed  and  clean-shaven, 
looked  his  best  to-day,  and  Susan,  in  a  wide,  dashing 
hat,  with  fresh  linen  at  wrists  and  collar,  enjoyed  the 
innocent  tribute  of  many  a  passing  glance  from  the 
ceaseless  current  of  men  crossing  and  recrossing  the 
ferry  place. 

"If  they  try  to  keep  us  for  dinner,  we'll  bashfully 
remain,"  said  Billy,  openly  enchanted  by  the  prospect 
of  a  day  with  his  adored  Josephine. 

But  first  they  were  to  have  a  late  second  breakfast 
at  Sardi's,  the  little  ramshackle  Sausalito  restaurant, 
whose  tables,  visible  through  green  arches,  hung  almost 
directly  over  the  water.  It  was  a  cheap  meal,  oily  and 
fried,  but  Susan  was  quite  happy,  hanging  over  the 
rail  to  watch  the  shining  surface  of  the  water  that 
was  so  near.  The  reflection  of  the  sun  shifted  in  a 
ceaselessly  moving  bright  pattern  on  the  white-washed 
ceiling,  the  wash  of  the  outgoing  steamer  surged 
through  the  piles,  and  set  to  rocking  all  the  nearby 
boats  at  anchor. 

After  luncheon,  they  climbed  the  long  flights  of  steps 
that  lead  straight  through  the  village,  which  hangs  on 
the  cliff  like  a  cluster  of  sea-birds'  nests.  The  gardens 
were  bare  and  brown  now,  the  trees  sober  and  shabby. 

When  the  steps  stopped,  they  followed  a  road  that 
ran  like  a  shelf  above  the  bay  and  waterfront  far  be- 
low, and  that  gave  a  wonderful  aspect  of  the  wide 
sweep  of  hills  and  sky  beyond,  all  steeped  in  the  thin, 
clear  autumn  haze.  Billy  pushed  open  a  high  gate 
that  had  scraped  the  path  beyond  in  a  deep  circular 
groove,  and  they  were  in  a  fine,  old-fashioned  garden, 
filled  with  trees.  Willow  and  pepper  and  eucalyptus 
towered  over  the  smaller  growth  of  orange  and  lemon- 
verbena  trees;  there  were  acacia  and  mock-orange  and 
standard  roses,  and  hollyhock  stalks,  bare  and  dry. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  143 

Only  the  cosmos  bushes,  tall  and  wavering,  were  in 
bloom,  with  a  few  chrysanthemums  and  late  asters,  the 
air  was  colder  here  than  it  had  been  out  under  the 
bright  November  sun,  and  the  path  under  the  trees  was 
green  and  slippery. 

On  a  rise  of  ground  stood  the  plain,  comfortable 
old  house,  with  a  white  curtain  blowing  here  and 
there  at  an  open  window  and  its  front  door  set  hos- 
pitably ajar.  But  not  a  soul  was  in  sight. 

Billy  and  Susan  were  at  home  here,  however,  and 
went  through  the  hallway  to  open  a  back  door  that 
gave  on  the  kitchen.  It  was  an  immaculate  kitchen, 
with  a  fire  glowing  sleepily  behind  the  shining  iron 
grating  of  the  stove,  and  sunshine  lying  on  the  well- 
scrubbed  floor.  A  tall  woman  was  busy  with  plants 
in  the  bright  window. 

"Well,  you  nice  child!"  she  exclaimed,  her  face 
brightening  as  Susan  came  into  her  arms  for  her 
motherly  kiss.  "I  was  just  thinking  about  you !  We've 
been  hearing  things  about  you,  Sue,  and  wondering — 

and  wondering !  And  Billy,  too  1  The  girls  will 

be  delighted!" 

This  was  the  mother  of  the  five  Carrolls,  a  mother 
to  whom  it  was  easy  to  trace  some  of  their  beauty,  and 
some  of  their  courage.  In  the  twelve  long  years  of  her 
widowhood,  from  a  useless,  idle,  untrained  member  of 
a  society  to  which  all  three  adjectives  apply,  this  woman 
had  grown  to  be  the  broad  and  brave  and  smiling 
creature  who  was  now  studying  Susan's  face  with  the 
insatiable  motherliness  that  even  her  household's  con- 
stant claims  failed  to  exhaust.  Manager  and  cook 
and  houseworker,  seamstress  and  confidante  to  her 
restless,  growing  brood,  still  there  was  a  certain  pure 
radiance  that  was  never  quite  missing  from  her  smile, 
and  Susan  felt  a  mad  impulse  to-day  to  have  a  long  com- 
forting cry  on  the  broad  shoulder.  She  thoroughly 
loved  Mrs.  Carroll,  even  if  she  thought  the  older 
woman's  interest  in  soups  and  darning  and  the  filling  of 
lamps  a  masterly  affectation,  and  pitied  her  for  the  bit- 


144  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

ter  fate  that  had  robbed  her  of  home  and  husband, 
wealth  and  position,  at  the  very  time  when  her  children 
needed  these  things  the  most. 

They  two  went  into  the  sitting-room  now,  while 
Billy  raced  after  the  young  people  who  had  taken  their 
luncheon,  it  appeared,  and  were  walking  over  the  hills 
to  a  favorite  spot  known  as  "Gioli's"  beach. 

Susan  liked  this  room,  low-ceiled  and  wide,  which 
ran  the  length  of  the  house.'  It  seemed  particularly 
pleasant  to-day,  with  the  uncertain  sunlight  falling 
through  the  well-darned,  snowy  window-curtains,  the 
circle  of  friendly,  shabby  chairs,  the  worn  old  carpet, 
scrupulously  brushed,  the  reading-table  with  a  green- 
shaded  lamp,  and  the  old  square  piano  loaded  with 
music.  The  room  was  in  Sunday  order  to-day,  books, 
shabby  with  much  handling,  were  ranged  neatly  on  their 
shelves,  not  a  fallen  leaf  lay  under  the  bowl  of  late 
roses  on  the  piano. 

Susan  had  had  many  a  happy  hour  in  this  room, 
for  if  the  Carrolls  were  poor  to  the  point  of  absurdity, 
their  mother  had  made  a  sort  of  science  of  poverty, 
and  concentrated  her  splendid  mind  on  the  questions  of 
meals,  clothes,  and  the  amusements  of  their  home  even- 
ings. That  it  had  been  a  hard  fight,  was  still  a  hard 
fight,  Susan  knew.  Philip,  the  handsome  first-born,  had 
the  tendencies  and  temptations  natural  to  his  six-and- 
twenty  years;  Anna,  her  mother's  especial  companion, 
was  taking  a  hard  course  of  nursing  in  a  city  hospital; 
Josephine,  the  family  beauty,  at  twenty,  was  soberly 
undertaking  a  course  in  architecture,  in  addition  to  her 
daily  work  in  the  offices  of  Huxley  and  Huxley;  even 
little  Betsey  was  busy,  and  Jimmy  still  in  school;  so 
that  the  brunt  of  the  planning,  of  the  actual  labor, 
indeed,  fell  upon  their  mother.  But  she  had  carried 
a  so  much  heavier  burden,  that  these  days  seemed 
bright  and  easeful  to  Mrs.  Carroll,  and  the  face  she 
turned  to  Susan  now  was  absolutely  unclouded. 

"What's  all  the  news,  Sue?  Auntie's  well,  and  Mary 
Lou?  And  what  do  they  say  now  of  Jinny?  Don't 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

tell  me  about  Georgie  until  the  girls  are  here!  And 
what's  this  I  hear  of  your  throwing  dewn  Phil  com- 
pletely, and  setting  up  a  new  young  man?" 

"Please'm,  you  never  said  I  wasn'ter,"  Susan 
laughed. 

"No,  indeed  I  never  did!  You  couldn't  do  a  more 
sensible  thing!" 

"Oh,  Aunt  To !"  The  title  was  only  by  courtesy.  "I 
thought  you  felt  that  every  woman  ought  to  have  a 
profession!" 

"A  means  of  livelihood,  my  dear,  not  a  profession 
necessarily  I  Yes,  to  be  used  in  case  she  didn't  marry, 
or  when  anything  went  wrong  if  she  did,"  the  older 
woman  amended  briskly.  "But,  Sue,  marriage  first  for 
all  girls !  I  won't  say,"  she  went  on  thoughtfully,  "that 
any  marriage  is  better  than  none  at  all,  but  I  could 
almost  say  that  I  thought  that!  That  is,  given  the 
average  start,  I  think  a  sensible  woman  has  nine 
chances  out  of  ten  of  making  a  marriage  successful, 
whereas  there  never  was  a  really  complete  life  rounded 
out  by  a  single  woman." 

"My  young  man  has  what  you'll  consider  one  seri- 
ous fault,"  said  Susan,  dimpling. 

"Dear,  dear!    And  what's  that?" 

"He's  rich." 

"Peter  Coleman,  yes,  of  course  he  is!"  Mrs.  Car- 
roll frowned  thoughtfully.  "Well,  that  isn't  necessarily 
bad,  Susan!" 

"Aunt  Josephine,"  Susan  said,  really  shaken  out  of 
her  nonsense  by  the  serious  tone,  "do  you  honestly 
think  it's  a  drawback?  Wouldn't  you  honestly  rather 
have  Jo,  say,  marry  a  rich  man  than  a  poor  man,  other 
things  being  equal?" 

"Honestly  no,  Sue,"  said  Mrs.  Carroll. 

"But  if  the  rich  man  was  just  as  good  and  brave  and 
honest  and  true  as  the  poor  one?"  persisted  the  girl. 

"But  he  couldn't  be,  Sue,  he  never  is.  The  fibers  of 
his  moral  and  mental  nature  are  too  soft.  He's  had 
no  hardening.  No,"  Mrs.  Carroll  shook  her  head. 


146  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"No,  I've  been  rich,  and  I've  been  poor.  If  a  man 
earns  his  money  honestly  himself,  he  grows  old  during 
the  process,  and  he  may  or  may  not  be  a  strong  and 
good  man.  But  if  he  merely  inherits  it,  he  is  pretty 
sure  not  to  be  one." 

"But  aren't  there  some  exceptions?"  asked  Susan. 
Mrs.  Carroll  laughed  at  her  tone. 

"There  are  exceptions  to  everything!  And  I  really 
believe  Peter  Coleman  is  one,"  she  conceded  smilingly. 
"Hark!"  for  feet. were  running  down  the  path  out- 
side. 

"There  you  are,  Sue!"  said  Anna  Carroll,  putting  a 
glowing  face  in  the  sitting-room  door.  "I  came  back 
for  you !  The  others  said  they  would  go  slowly,  and 
we  can  catch  them  if  we  hurry!" 

She  came  in,  a  brilliant,  handsome  young  creature, 
in  rough,  well-worn  walking  attire,  and  a  gipsyish  hat. 
Talking  steadily,  as  they  always  did  when  together, 
she  and  Susan  went  upstairs,  and  Susan  was  loaned  a 
short  skirt,  and  a  cap  that  made  her  prettier  than 
ever. 

The  house  was  old,  there  was  a  hint  of  sagging  here 
and  there,  in  the  worn  floors,  the  bedrooms  were  plainly 
furnished,  almost  bare.  In  the  atmosphere  there  lin- 
gered, despite  the  open  windows,  the  faint  undefinable 
odor  common  to  old  houses  in  which  years  of  frugal 
and  self-denying  living  have  set  their  mark,  an  odor 
vaguely  compounded  of  clean  linen  and  old  woodwork, 
hot  soapsuds  and  ammonia.  The  children's  old  books 
were  preserved  in  old  walnut  cases,  nothing  had  been 
renewed,  recarpeted,  repapered  for  many  years. 

Still  talking,  the  girls  presently  ran  downstairs,  and 
briskly  followed  the  road  that  wound  up,  above  the 
tillage,  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  Anna  chattered  of  the 
hospital,  of  the  superintendent  of  nurses,  who  was  a 
trial  to  all  the  young  nurses,  "all  superintendents  are 
tyrants,  I  think,"  said  Anna,  "and  we  just  have  to  shut 
our  teeth  and  bear  it!  But  it's  all  so  unnecessarily 
hard,  and  it's  wrong,  too,  for  nursing  the  sick  is  one 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  147 

thing,  and  being  teased  by  an  irritable  woman  like  that 
is  another!  However,"  she  concluded  cheerfully,  "I'll 
graduate  some  day,  and  forget  her!  And  meantime, 
I  don't  want  to  worry  mother,  for  Phil's  just  taken  a 
real  start,  and  Bett's  doctor's  bills  are  paid,  and  the 
landlord,  by  some  miracle,  has  agreed  to  plaster  the 
kitchen!" 

They  joined  the  others  just  below  the  top  of  the 
hill,  and  were  presently  fighting  the  stiff  wind  that 
blew  straight  across  the  ridge.  Once  over  it,  however, 
the  wind  dropped,  the  air  was  deliciously  soft  and  fresh 
and  their  rapid  walking  made  the  day  seem  warm. 
There  was  no  road;  their  straggling  line  followed  the 
little  shelving  paths  beaten  out  of  the  hillside  by  the 
cows. 

Far  below  lay  the  ocean,  only  a  tone  deeper  than 
the  pale  sky.  The  line  of  the  Cliff  House  beach  was 
opposite,  a  vessel  under  full  sail  was  moving  in  through 
the  Golden  Gate.  The  hills  fell  sharply  away  to  the 
beach,  Gioli's  ranch-house,  down  in  the  valley,  was 
only  one  deeper  brown  note  among  all  the  browns. 
Here  and  there  cows  were  grazing,  cotton-tails  whisked 
behind  the  tall,  dried  thistles. 

The  Carrolls  loved  this  particular  walk,  and  took  it 
in  all  weathers.  Sometimes  they  had  a  guest  or  two, — 
a  stray  friend  of  Philip's,  or  two  or  three  of  Anna's 
girl  friends  from  the  hospital.  It  did  not  matter,  for 
there  was  no  pairing  off  at  the  Carroll  picnics.  Oftener 
they  were  all  alone,  or,  as  to-day,  with  Susan  and  Billy, 
who  were  like  members  of  the  family. 

To-day  Billy,  Jimmy  and  Betsey  were  racing  ahead 
like  frolicking  puppies;  up  banks,  down  banks,  shriek- 
ing, singing  and  shouting.  Phil  and  Josephine  walked 
together,  they  were  inseparable  chums,  and  Susan 
thought  them  a  pretty  study  to-day;  Josephine  so  de- 
murely beautiful  in  her  middy  jacket  and  tam-o-shanter 
cap,  and  Philip  so  obviously  proud  of  her. 

She  and  Anna,  their  hands  sunk  in  their  coat-pockets, 


148  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

their  hair  loosening  under  the  breezes,  followed  the 
others  rather  silently. 

And  swiftly,  subtly,  the  healing  influences  of  the 
hour  crept  into  Susan's  heart.  What  of  these  petty 
little  hopes  and  joys  and  fears  that  fretted  her  like 
a  cloud  of  midges  day  and  night?  How  small  they 
seemed  in  the  wide  silence  of  these  brooding  hills,  with 
the  sunlight  lying  warm  on  the  murmuring  ocean  be- 
low, and  the  sweet  kindly  earth  underfoot! 

"I  wish  I  could  live  out  here,  Nance,  and  never  go 
near  to  people  and  things  again!" 

"Oh,  don't  you,  Sue!" 

There  was  a  delay  at  the  farmhouse  for  cream. 
The  ranchers'  damp  dooryard  had  been  churned  into 
deep  mud  by  the  cows,  strong  odors,  delicious  to  Susan, 
because  they  were  associated  with  these  happy  days, 
drifted  about,  the  dairy  reeked  of  damp  earth,  wet 
wood,  and  scoured  tinware.  The  cream,  topping  the 
pan  like  a  circle  of  leather,  was  loosened  by  a  small, 
sharp  stick,  and  pushed,  thick  and  lumpy,  into  the 
empty  jam  jar  that  Josephine  neatly  presented.  A 
woman  came  to  the  ranch-house  door  with  a  grinning 
Portuguese  greeting,  the  air  from  the  kitchen  behind 
her  was  close,  and  reeked  of  garlic  and  onions  and 
other  odors.  Susan  and  Anna  went  in  to  look  at  the 
fat  baby,  a  brown  cherub  whose  silky  black  lashes 
curved  back  half  an  inch  from  his  cheeks.  There  were 
half  a  dozen  small  children  in  the  kitchen,  cats,  even  a 
sickly  chicken  or  two. 

"Very  different  from  the  home  life  of  our  dear 
Queen!"  said  Susan,  when  they  were  out  in  the  air 
again. 

The  road  now  ran  between  marshy  places  full  of 
whispering  reeds,  occasional  crazy  fences  must  be 
crossed,  occasional  pools  carefully  skirted.  And  then 
they  were  really  crossing  the  difficult  strip  of  sandy 
dead  grasses,  and  cocoanut  shells,  and  long-dried  sea- 
weeds that  had  been  tossed  up  by  the  sea  in  a  long 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  149 

ridge  on  the  beach,  and  were  racing  on  the  smooth 
sand,  where  the  dangerous  looking  breakers  were  roll- 
ing so  harmlessly.  They  shouted  to  each  other  now, 
above  the  roar  of  the  water,  as  they  gathered  drift- 
wood for  their  fire,  and  when  the  blaze  was  well 
started,  indulged  in  the  fascinating  pastime  of  running 
in  long  curves  so  near  to  the  incoming  level  rush  of 
the  waves  that  they  were  all  soon  wet  enough  to  feel 
that  no  further  harm  could  be  done  by  frankly  wading 
in  the  shallows,  posing  for  Philip's  camera  on  half- 
submerged  rocks,  and  chasing  each  other  through  a 
frantic  game  of  beach  tag.  It  was  the  prudent  Joseph- 
ine,— for  Anna  was  too  dreamy  and  unpractical  to 
bring  her  attention  to  detail, — who  suggested  a  general 
drying  of  shoes,  as  they  gathered  about  the  fire  for 
the  lunch — toasted  sandwiches,  and  roasted  potatoes, 
and  large  wedges  of  apple-pie,  and  the  tin  mugs  of  de- 
licious coffee  that  crowned  all  these  feasts.  Only  sea- 
air  accounted  for  the  quantities  in  which  the  edibles 
disappeared;  the  pasteboard  boxes  and  the  basket  were 
emptied  to  the  last  crumb,  and  the  coffee-pot  refilled 
and  emptied  again. 

The  meal  was  not  long  over,  and  the  stiffened  boots 
were  being  buttoned  with  the  aid  of  bent  hairpins,  when 
the  usual  horrifying  discovery  of  the  time  was  made. 
Frantic  hurrying  ensued,  the  tin  cups,  dripping  salt 
water,  were  strung  on  a  cord,  the  cardboard  boxes 
fed  the  last  flicker  of  the  fire,  the  coffee-pot  was  emp- 
tied into  the  waves. 

And  they  were  off  again,  climbing  up — up — up  the 
long  rise  of  the  hills.  The  way  home  always  seemed 
twice  the  way  out,  but  Susan  found  it  a  soothing,  com- 
forting experience  to-day.  The  sun  went  behind  a 
cloud;  cows  filed  into  the  ranch  gates  for  milking;  a 
fine  fog  blew  up  from  the  sea. 

"Wonderful  day,  Anna !"  Susan  said.  The  two  were 
alone  together  again. 

"These  walks  do  make  you  over,"  Anna's  bright  face 
clouded  a  little  as  she  turned  to  look  down  the  long 


150  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

road  they  had  come.  "It's  all  so  beautiful,  Sue,"  she 
said,  slowly,  "and  the  spring  is  so  beautiful,  and  books 
and  music  and  fires  are  so  beautiful.  Why  aren't 
they  enough?  Nobody  can  take  those  things  away 
from  us!" 

"I  know,"  Susan  said  briefly,  comprehending. 

"But  we  set  our  hearts  on  some  silly  thing  not  worth 
one  of  these  fogs,"  Anna  mused,  "and  nothing  but  that 
one  thing  seems  to  count!" 

"I  know,"  Susan  said  again.  She  thought  of  Peter 
Coleman. 

"There's  a  doctor  at  the  hospital,"  Anna  said  sud- 
denly. "A  German,  Doctor  Hoffman.  Of  course  I'm 
only  one  of  twenty  girls  to  him,  now.  But  I've  often 
thought  that  if  I  had  pretty  gowns,  and  the  sort  of 
home, — you  know  what  I  mean,  Sue!  to  which  one 
could  ask  that  type  of  really  distinguished  man " 

"Well,  look  at  my  case "  began  Susan. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  the  seven  stormed  the 
home  kitchen,  tired,  chilly,  happy,  ravenous.  Here 
they  found  Mrs.  Carroll,  ready  to  serve  the  big  pot- 
roast  and  the  squares  of  yellow  cornbread,  and  to 
have  Betsey  and  Billy  burn  their  fingers  trying  to  get 
baked  sweet  potatoes  out  of  the  oven.  And  here, 
straddling  a  kitchen  chair,  and  noisily  joyous  as  usual, 
was  Peter  Coleman.  Susan  knew  in  a  happy  instant 
that  he  had  gone  to  find  her  at  her  aunt's,  and  had 
followed  her  here,  and  during  the  meal  that  followed, 
she  was  the  maddest  of  all  the  mad  crowd.  After  din- 
ner they  had  Josephine's  violin,  and  coaxed  Betsey  to 
recite,  but  more  appreciated  than  either  was  Miss 
Brown's  rendition  of  selections  from  German  and 
Italian  opera,  and  her  impersonation  of  an  inexperi- 
enced servant  from  Erin's  green  isle.  Mrs.  Carroll 
laughed  until  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks,  as  indeed 
they  all  did. 

The  evening  ended  with  songs  about  the  old  piano, 
"Loch  Lomond,"  "Love's  Old  Sweet  Song,"  and 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  151 

"Asthore."  Then  Susan  and  Peter  and  Billy  must  run 
for  their  hats  and  wraps. 

"And  Peter  thinks  there's  money  in  my  window- 
washer!"  said  Mrs.  Carroll,  when  they  were  all  loiter- 
ing in  the  doorway,  while  Betts  hunted  for  the  new 
time-table. 

"Mother's  invention"  was  a  standing  joke  with  the 
young  Carrolls,  but  their  mother  had  a  serene  belief 
that  some  day  something  might  be  done  with  the  little 
contrivance  she  had  thought  of  some  years  ago,  by 
which  the  largest  of  windows  might  be  washed  outside 
as  easily  as  inside.  "I  believe  I  really  thought  of  it 
by  seeing  poor  maids  washing  fifth-story  windows  by 
sitting  on  the  sill  and  tipping  out!"  she  confessed  one 
day  to  Susan.  Now  she  had  been  deeply  pleased  by 
Peter's  casual  interest  in  it. 

"Peter  says  that  there's  no  reason "  she  began. 

"Oh,  Mother!"  Josephine  laughed  indulgently,  as 
she  stood  with  her  arm  about  her  mother's  waist,  and 
her  bright  cheek  against  her  mother's  shoulder,  "you've 
not  been  taking  Peter  seriously!" 

"Jo,  when  I  ask  you  to  take  me  seriously,  it'll  be 
time  for  you  to  get  so  fresh!"  said  Peter  neatly. 
"Your  mother  is  the  Lady  Edison  of  the  Pacific  Coast, 
and  don't  you  forget  it!  I'm  going  to  talk  to  some 
men  at  the  shop  about  this  thing " 

"Say,  if  you  do,  I'll  make  some  blue  prints,"  Billy 
volunteered. 

"You're  on!"  agreed  Mr.  Coleman. 

"You  wouldn't  want  to  market  this  yourself,  Mrs. 
Carroll?" 

"Well — no,  I  don't  think  so.  No,  I'm  sure  I 
wouldn't!  I'd  rather  sell  it  for  a  lump  sum " 

"To  be  not  less  than  three  dollars,"  laughed  Phil. 

"Less  than  three  hundred,  you  mean!"  said  the  in- 
terested Peter. 

"Three  hundred!"  Mrs.  Carroll  exclaimed.  "Do 
you  suppose  so?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know — but  I  can  find  out." 


152  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

The  trio,  running  for  their  boat,  left  the  little  family 
rather  excited,  for  the  first  time,  over  the  window- 
cleaner. 

"But,  Peter,  is  there  really  something  in  it?"  asked 
Susan,  on  the  boat. 

"Well, — there  might  be.  Anyway,  it  seemed  a  good 
chance  to  give  them  a  lift,  don't  you  know?"  he  said, 
with  his  ingenuous  blush.  Susan  loved  him  for  the 
generous  impulse.  She  had  sometimes  fancied  him  a 
little  indifferent  to  the  sufferings  of  the  less  fortunate, 
proof  of  the  contrary  warmed  her  to  the  very  heart! 
She  had  been  distressed  one  day  to  hear  him  gaily  tell- 
ing George  Banks,  the  salesman  who  was  coughing  him- 
self to  death  despite  the  frantic  care  of  his  wife,  a 
story  of  a  consumptive,  and,  on  another  occasion,  when 
a  shawled,  shabby  woman  had  come  up  to  them  in  the 
street,  with  the  whined  story  of  five  little  hungry  chil- 
dren, Susan  had  been  shocked  to  hear  Peter  say,  with 
his  irrepressible  gaiety,  "Well,  here!  Here's  five  cents; 
that's  a  cent  apiece!  Now  mind  you  don't  waste  it!" 

She  told  herself  to-night  that  these  things  proved  no 
more  than  want  of  thought.  There  was  nothing  wrong 
with  the  heart  that  could  plan  so  tactfully  for  Mrs. 
Carroll. 

On  the  following  Saturday  Susan  had  the  unexpected 
experience  of  shopping  with  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  Geor- 
gie  for  the  latter's  trousseau.  It  \*as  unlike  any  shop- 
ping that  they  had  ever  done  before,  inasmuch  as 
the  doctor's  unclaimed  bride  had  received  from  her 
lord  the  sum  of  three  hundred  dollars  for  the  purpose. 
Georgie  denied  firmly  that  she  was  going  to  start  with 
her  husband  for  the  convention  at  Del  Monte  that 
evening,  but  she  went  shopping  nevertheless.  Perhaps 
she  could  not  really  resist  the  lure  of  the  shining  heap 
of  gold  pieces.  She  became  deeply  excited  and  charmed 
over  the  buying  of  the  pretty  tailor-made,  the  silk 
house  dresses,  the  hat  and  shoes  and  linen.  Georgie  be- 
gan to  play  the  bride,  was  prettily  indignant  with  clerks, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  153 

pouted  at  silks  and  velvets.  Susan  did  not  miss  her 
cousin's  bright  blush  when  certain  things,  a  linen  suit, 
underlinen,  a  waist  or  two,  were  taken  from  the  mass 
of  things  to  be  sent,  and  put  into  Georgie's  suitcase. 

"And  you're  to  have  a  silk  waist,  Ma,  I  insist." 

"Now,  Baby  love,  this  is  your  shopping.  And,  more 
than  that,  I  really  need  a  pair  of  good  corsets  before  I 
try  on  waists!" 

"Then  you'll  have  both !"  Mrs.  Lancaster  laughed 
helplessly  as  the  bride  carried  her  point. 

At  six  o'clock  the  three  met  the  doctor  at  the  Vienna 
Bakery,  for  tea,  and  Georgie,  quite  lofty  in  her  atti- 
tude when  only  her  mother  and  cousin  were  to  be  imn 
pressed,  seemed  suddenly  to  lose  her  powers  of  speech. 
She  answered  the  doctor's  outline  of  his  plans  only  by 
monosyllables.  "Yes,"  "All  right,"  "That's  nice,  Joe." 
Her  face  was  burning  red. 

"But  Ma — Ma  and  I — and  Sue,  too,  don't  you. 
Sue?"  she  stammered  presently.  "We  think — and 
don't  you  think  it  would  be  as  well,  yourself,  Joe,  if  I 
went  back  with  Ma  to-night " 

Susan,  anxiously  looking  toward  the  doctor,  at  this, 
felt  a  little  thrill  run  over  her  whole  body  at  the  sudden 
glimpse  of  the  confident  male  she  had  in  his  reply, — 
or  rather,  lack  of  reply.  For,  after  a  vague,  absent 
glance  at  Georgie,  he  took  a  time-table  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  addressed  his  mother-in-law. 

"We'll  be  back  next  Sunday,  Mrs.  Lancaster.  But 
don't  worry  if  you  don't  hear  from  Georgie  that  day, 
for  we  may  be  late,  and  Mother  won't  naturally  want 
us  to  run  off  the  moment  we  get  home.  But  on  Mon- 
day Georgie  can  go  over,  if  she  wants  to.  Perhaps 
I'll  drive  her  over,  if  I  can." 

"He  was  the  coolest !"  Susan  said,  half-an- 
noyed, half-admiring,  to  Mary  Lou,  late  that  night. 
The  boarding-house  had  been  pleasantly  fluttered  by 
the  departure  of  the  bride,  Mrs.  Lancaster,  in  spite  of 
herself,  had  enjoyed  the  little  distinction  of  being  that 
personage's  mother. 


154  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Well,  she'll  be  back  again  in  a  week!"  Virginia, 
missing  her  sister,  sighed. 

"Back,  yes,"  Mrs.  Lancaster  admitted,  "but  not 
quite  the  same,  dear!"  Georgie,  whatever  her  hus- 
band, whatever  the  circumstances  of  her  marriage,  was 
nearer  her  mother  than  any  of  the  others  now.  As  a 
wife,  she  was  admitted  to  the  company  of  wives. 

Susan  spent  the  evening  in  innocently  amorous 
dreams,  over  her  game  of  patience.  What  a  wonder- 
ful thing,  if  one  loved  a  man,  to  fare  forth  into  the 
world  with  him  as  his  wife ! 

"I  have  about  as  much  chance  with  Joe  Carroll  as 
a  dead  rat,"  said  Billy  suddenly.  He  was  busied  with 
his  draughting  board  and  the  little  box  of  draughts- 
man's instruments  that  Susan  always  found  fascinating, 
and  had  been  scowling  and  puffing  over  his  work. 

"Why?"  Susan  asked,  laughing  outright. 

"Oh,  she's  so  darn  busy!"  Billy  said,  and  returned 
to  his  work. 

Susan  pondered  it.  She  wished  she  were  so 
"darned"  busy  that  Peter  Coleman  might  have  to 
scheme  and  plan  to  see  her. 

"That's  why  men's  love  affairs  are  considered  so 
comparatively  unimportant,  I  suppose,"  she  submitted 
presently.  "Men  are  so  busy!" 

Billy  paid  no  attention  to  the  generality,  and  Susan 
pursued  it  no  further. 

But  after  awhile  she  interrupted  him  again,  this  time 
in  rather  an  odd  tone. 

"Billy,  I  want  to  ask  you  something " 

"Ask  away,"  said  Billy,  giving  her  one  somewhat 
startled  glance. 

Susan  did  not  speak  immediately,  and  he  did  not 
hurry  her.  A  few  silent  minutes  passed  before  she 
laid  a  card  carefully  in  place,  studied  it  with  her  head 
on  one  side,  and  said  casually,  in  rather  a  husky  voice : 

"Billy,  if  a  man  takes  a  girl  everywhere,  and  gives 
her  things,  and  seems  to  want  to  be  with  her  all  the 
time,  he's  in  love  with  her,  isn't  he?" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  155 

Billy,  apparently  absorbed  in  what  he  was  doing, 
cleared  his  throat  before  he  answered  carelessly: 

"Well,  it  might  depend,  Sue.  When  a  man  in  my 
position  does  it,  a  girl  knows  gosh  darn  well  that  if  I 
spend  my  good  hard  money  on  her  I  mean  business!" 

"But — it  mightn't  be  so — with  a  rich  man?"  hazard- 
ed Susan  bravely. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  Sue."  An  embarrassed  red 
had  crept  into  William's  cheeks.  "Of  course,  if  a 
fellow  kissed  her " 

"Oh,  heavens!"  cried  Susan,  scarlet  in  turn,  "he 
never  did  anything  like  that!" 

"Didn't,  hey?"  William  looked  blank. 

"Oh,  never!"  Susan  said,  meeting  his  look  bravely. 
"He's — he's  too  much  of  a  gentleman,  Bill!" 

"Perhaps  that's  being  a  gentleman,  and  perhaps  it's 
not,"  said  Billy,  scowling.  "He — but  he — he  makes 
love  to  you,  doesn't  he?"  The  crude  phrase  was  the 
best  he  could  master  in  this  delicate  matter. 

"I  don't — I  don't  know!"  said  Susan,  laughing,  but 
with  flaming  cheeks.  "That's  it !  He — he  isn't  senti- 
mental. I  don't  believe  he  ever  would  be,  it's  not  his 
nature.  He  doesn't  take  anything  very  seriously,  you 
know.  We  talk  all  the  time,  but  not  about  really  seri- 
ous things."  It  sounded  a  little  lame.  Susan  halted. 

"Of  course,  Coleman's  a  perfectly  decent  fellow 
'  Billy  began,  with  brotherly  uneasiness. 

"Oh,  absolutely!"  Susan  could  laugh,  in  her  perfect 
confidence.  "He  acts  exactly  as  if  I  were  his  sister, 
or  another  boy.  He  never  even — put  his  arm  about 
me,"  she  explained,  "and  I — I  don't  know  just  what  he 
does  mean " 

"Sure,"  said  Billy,  thoughtfully. 

"Of  course,  there's  no  reason  why  a  man  and  a 
girl  can't  be  good  friends  just  as  two  men  would," 
Susan  said,  more  lightly,  after  a  pause. 

"Oh,  yes  there  is!  Don't  you  fool  yourself!"  Billy 
said,  gloomily.  "That's  all  rot!" 

"Well,  a  girl  can't  stay  moping  in  the  house  until 


156  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

a  man  comes  along  and  says,  'If  I  take  you  to  the  the- 
ater it  means  I  want  to  marry  you!'  "  Susan  declared 
with  spirit.  "I — I  can't  very  well  turn  to  Peter  now 
and  say,  'This  ends  everything,  unless  you  are  in 
earnest!' ' 

Her  distress,  her  earnestness,  her  eagerness  for  his 
opinion,  had  carried  her  quite  out  of  herself.  She 
rested  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  fixed  her  anxious  eyes 
upon  him. 

"Well,  here's  the  way  I  figure  it  out,"  Billy  said, 
deliberately,  drawing  his  pencil  slowly  along  the  edge 
of  his  T-square,  and  squinting  at  it  absorbedly,  "Cole- 
man  has  a  crush  on  you,  all  right,  and  he'd  rather  be 
with  you  than  anyone  else " 

"Yes,"  nodded  Susan.    "I  know  that,  because " 

"Well.  But  you  see  you're  so  fixed  that  you  can't 
entertain  him  here,  Sue,  and  you  don't  run  in  his  crowd, 
so  when  he  wants  to  see  you  he  has  to  go  out  of  his 
way  to  do  it.  So  his  rushing  you  doesn't  mean  as 
much  as  it  otherwise  would." 

"I  suppose  that's  true,"  Susan  said,  with  a  sinking 
heart. 

"The  chances  are  that  he  doesn't  want  to  get  mar- 
ried at  all  yet,"  pursued  Billy,  mercilessly,  "and  he 
thinks  that  if  he  gives  you  a  good  time,  and  doesn't — 
doesn't  go  any  further,  that  he's  playing  fair." 

"That's  what  I  think,"  Susan  said,  fighting  a  sensa- 
tion of  sickness.  Her  heart  was  a  cold  weight,  she 
hoped  that  she  was  not  going  to  cry. 

"But  all  the  same,  Sue,"  Billy  resumed  more  briskly, 
"You  can  see  that  it  wouldn't  take  much  to  bring  an 
affair  like  that  to  a  finish.  Coleman's  rich,  he  can 

marry  if  he  pleases,  and  he  wants  what  he  wants 

You  couldn't  just  stop  short,  I  suppose?  You  couldn't 
simply  turn  down  all  his  invitations,  and  refuse  every- 
thing?" he  broke  off  to  ask. 

"Billy,  how  could  I?     Right  in  the  next  office!" 

"Well,  that's  an  advantage,  in  a  way.  It  keeps  the 
things  in  his  mind.  Either  way,  you're  no  worse  off 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  157 

for  stopping  everything  now,  Sue.  If  he's  in  earnest, 
he'll  not  be  put  off  by  that,  and  if  he's  not,  you  save 
yourself  from — from  perhaps  beginning  to  care." 

Susan  could  have  kissed  the  top  of  Billy's  rumpled 
head  for  the  tactful  close.  She  had  thrown  her  pride 
to  the  winds  to-night,  but  she  loved  him  for  remem- 
bering it. 

"But  he  would  think  that  I  cared!"  she  objected. 

"Let  him!  That  won't  hurt  you.  Simply  say 
that  your  aunt  disapproves  of  your  being  so  much 
with  him,  and  stop  short." 

Billy  went  on  working,  and  Susan  shuffled  her  pack 
for  a  new  game. 

"Thank  you,  Bill,"  she  said  at  last,  gratefully.  "I'm 
glad  I  told  you." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  said  William,  gruffly. 

There  was  a  silence  until  Mary  Lou  came  in,  to  rip 
up  her  old  velvet  hat,  and  speculate  upon  the  dangers 
of  a  trip  to  Virginia  City. 


CHAPTER  V7I 

LIFE  presented  itself  in  a  new  aspect  to  Susan  Brown. 
A  hundred  little  events  and  influences  combining  had 
made  it  seem  to  her  less  a  grab-bag,  from  which  one 
drew  good  or  bad  at  haphazard,  and  more  a  rational 
problem,  to  be  worked  out  with  arbitrarily  supplied 
materials.  She  might  not  make  herself  either  rich  or 
famous,  but  she  could, — she  began  dimly  to  perceive,— 
eliminate  certain  things  from  her  life  and  put  others  in 
their  places.  The  race  was  not  to  the  swift,  but  to 
the  faithful.  What  other  people  had  done,  she,  by 
following  the  old  copybook  rules  of  the  honest  policy, 
the  early  rising,  the  power  of  knowledge,  the  infinite 
capacity  of  taking  pains  that  was  genius,  could  do,  too. 
She  had  been  the  toy  of  chance  too  long.  She  would 
grasp  chance,  now,  and  make  it  serve  her.  The  per- 
severance that  Anna  brought  to  her  hospital  work, 
that  Josephine  exercised  in  her  studies,  Susan,  lacking 
a  gift,  lacking  special  training,  would  seriously  devote 
to  the  business  of  getting  married.  Girls  did  marry. 
She  would  presumably  marry  some  day,  and  Peter 
Coleman  would  marry.  Why  not,  having  advanced  a 
long  way  in  this  direction,  to  each  other? 

There  was,  in  fact,  no  alternative  in  her  case.  She 
knew  no  other  eligible  man  half  as  well.  If  Peter 
Coleman  went  out  of  her  life,  what  remained?  A 
somewhat  insecure  position  in  a  wholesale  drug-house, 
at  forty  dollars  a  month,  and  half  a  third-story  bed- 
room in  a  boarding-house. 

Susan  was  not  a  calculating  person.  She  knew  that 
Peter  Coleman  liked  her  immensely,  and  that  he  could 
love  her  deeply,  too.  She  knew  that  her  feeling  for 
him  was  only  held  from  an  extreme  by  an  inherited 

158 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  159 

feminine  instinct  of  self-preservation.  Marriage,  and 
especially  this  marriage,  meant  to  her  a  great  many 
pleasant  things,  a  splendid,  lovable  man  with  whom 
to  share  life,  a  big  home  to  manage  and  delight  in, 
a  conspicuous  place  in  society,  and  one  that  she  knew 
that  she  could  fill  gracefully  and  well.  Marriage  meant 
children,  dear  little  white-clad  sons,  with  sturdy  bare 
knees,  and  tiny  daughters  half-smothered  in  lace  and 
ribbons;  it  meant  power,  power  to  do  good,  to  de- 
velop her  own  gifts;  it  meant,  above  all,  a  solution  of 
the  problems  of  her  youth.  No  more  speculations,  no 
more  vagaries,  safely  anchored,  happily  absorbed  in 
normal  cares  and  pleasures,  Susan  could  rest  on  her 
laurels,  and  look  about  her  in  placid  content! 

No  more  serious  thought  assailed  her.  Other 
thoughts  than  these  were  not  "nice."  Susan  safe- 
guarded her  wandering  fancies  as  sternly  as  she  did 
herself,  would  as  quickly  have  let  Peter,  or  any  other 
man,  kiss  her,  as  to  have  dreamed  of  the  fundamental 
and  essential  elements  of  marriage.  These,  said 
Auntie,  "came  later."  Susan  was  quite  content  to  ig- 
nore them.  That  the  questions  that  "came  later"  might 
ruin  her  life  or  unmake  her  compact,  she  did  not  know. 
At  this  point  it  might  have  made  no  difference  in  her 
attitude.  Her  affection  for  Peter  was  quite  as  fresh 
and  pure  as  her  feeling  for  a  particularly  beloved 
brother  would  have  been. 

"You're  dated  three-deep  for  Thursday  night,  I  pre- 
sume?" 

"Peter — how  you  do  creep  up  behind  one  I"  Susan 
turned,  on  the  deck,  to  face  him  laughingly.  "What 
did  you  say?" 

"I  said — but  where  are  you  going?" 

"Upstairs  to  lunch.  Where  did  you  think?"  Susan 
exhibited  the  little  package  in  her  hand.  "Do  I  look 
like  a  person  about  to  go  to  a  Browning  Cotillion,  or 
to  take  a  dip  in  the  Pacific?" 

"No,"  gurgled  Peter,  "but  I  was  wishing  we  could 


160  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

lunch  together.  However,  I'm  dated  with  Hunter. 
But  what  about  Thursday  night?" 

"Thursday."    Susan  reflected.    "Peter,  I  can't!" 

"All  foolishness.    You  can." 

"No,  honestly!  Georgie  and  Joe  are  coming.  The 
first  time." 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  have  to  be  there !" 

"Oh,  but  yes  I  do!" 

"Well "  Mr.  Coleman  picked  a  limp  rubber 

bathing  cap  from  the  top  of  a  case,  and  distended  it 
on  two  well-groomed  hands.  "Well,  Evangeline,  how's 
Sat.  ?  The  great  American  pay-day !" 

"Busy  Saturday,  too.    Too  bad.    I'm  sorry,  Peter." 

"Woman,  you  lie!" 

"Of  course  you  can  insult  me,  sir.  I'm  only  a  work- 
ing girl  I" 

"No,  but  who  have  you  got  a  date  with?"  Peter  said 
curiously.  "You're  blushing  like  mad!  You're  not 
engaged  at  all !" 

"Yes,  I  am.  Truly.  Lydia  Lord  is  taking  the  civil 
service  examinations;  she  wants  to  get  a  position  in 
the  public  library.  And  I  promised  that  I'd  take 
Mary's  dinner  up  and  sit  with  her." 

"Oh,  shucks!  You  could  get  out  of  that!  How- 
ever   I'll  tell  you  what,  Susan.  I  was  going  off 

with  Russ  on  Sunday,  but  I'll  get  out  of  it,  and  we'll 
go  see  guard  mount  at  the  Presidio,  and  have  tea  with 
Aunt  Clara,  what?" 

"I  don't  believe  they  have  guard  mount  on  Sun- 
days." 

"Well,  then  we'll  go  feed  the  gold-fish  in  the  Jap- 
anese gardens, — they  eat  on  Sundays,  the  poor  things ! 
Nobody  ever  converted  them." 

"Honestly,  Peter -" 

"Look  here,  Susan!"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly  aroused. 
"Are  you  trying  to  throw  me  down?  Well,  of  all 
gall!" 

Susan's  heart  began  to  thump. 

"No,  of  course  I'm  not!" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  161 

"Well,  then,  shall  I  get  tickets  for  Monday  night?'* 

"Not  Monday." 

"Look  here,  Susan !  Somebody's  been  stuffing  you, 
I  can  see  it!  Was  it  Auntie?  Come  on,  now,  what's 
the  matter,  all  of  a -sudden?" 

"There's  nothing  sudden  about  it,"  Susan  said,  with 
dignity,  "but  Auntie  does  think  that  I  go  about  with 
you  a  good  deal " 

Peter  was  silent.  Susan,  stealing  a  glance  at  his 
face,  saw  that  it  was  very  red. 

"Oh,  I  love  that!  I'm  o-azy  about  it!"  he  saidr 
grinning.  Then,  with  sudden  masterfulness,  "That's 
all  rot!  I'm  coming  for  you  on  Sunday,  and  we'll  go 
feed  the  fishes!" 

And  he  was  gone.  Susan  ate  her  lunch  very  thought- 
fully, satisfied  on  the  whole  with  the  first  application  of 
the  new  plan. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  Mr  Coleman  duly  presented 
himself  at  the  boarding-house,  buf-  he  was  accompanied 
by  Miss  Fox,  to  whom  Susan,  who  saw  her  occasionally 
at  the  Saunders',  had  taken  a  vague  dislike,  and  by  a 
Mr.  Horace  Carter,  fat,  sleepy,  and  slightly  bald  at 
twenty-six. 

"I  brought  'em  along  to  pacify  Auntie,"  said  Peter 
on  the  car. 

Susan  made  a  little  grimace. 

"You  don't  like  Con?  Oh,  she's  loads  of  sport!" 
he  assured  her.  "And  you'll  like  Carter,  too,  he's  loads 
of  fun!" 

But  Susan  liked  nobody  and  nothing  that  day.  It 
was  a  failure  from  beginning  to  end.  The  sky  was 
overcast,  gloomy.  Not  a  leaf  stirred  on  the  dripping 
trees,  in  the  silent  Park,  fog  filled  all  the  little  canons. 
There  were  very  few  children  on  the  merry-go-rounds, 
or  in  the  swings,  and  very  few  pleasure-seekers  in  the 
museum  and  the  conservatories.  Miss  Fox  was  quite 
comfortable  in  white  furs,  but  Susan  felt  chilly.  She 
tried  to  strike  a  human  spark  from  Mr.  Carter,  but 


162  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

failed.  Attempts  at  a  general  conversation  also  fell 
flat. 

They  listened  to  the  band  for  a  little  while,  but  it 
was  too  cold  to  sit  still  very  long,  and  when  Peter 
proposed  tea  at  the  Occidental,  Susan  visibly  bright- 
ened. But  the  shamed  color  rose  in  her  face  when 
Miss  Fox  languidly  assured  him  that  if  he  wanted  her 
mother  to  scalp  her,  well  and  good;  if  not,  he  would 
please  not  mention  tea  downtown. 

She  added  that  Mama  was  having  a  tea  herself  to- 
day, or  she  would  ask  them  all  to  come  home  with  her. 
This  put  Susan  in  an  uncomfortable  position  of  which 
she  had  to  make  the  best. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  an  assorted  bunch  of  boarders," 
said  Susan,  "I  would  ask  you  all  to  our  house." 

Miss  Fox  eyed  her  curiously  a  moment,  then  spoke 
to  Peter. 

"Well,  do  let's  do  something,  Peter!  Let's -go  to 
the  Japanese  garden." 

To  the  Japanese  garden  they  went,  for  a  most  un- 
satisfactory tea.  Miss  Fox,  it  appeared,  had  been  to 
Japan, — "with  Dolly  Ripley,  Peter,"  said  she,  care- 
lessly mentioning  the  greatest  of  California's  heiresses, 
and  she  delighted  the  little  bowing,  smiling  tea-woman 
with  a  few  words  in  her  native  tongue.  Susan  admired 
this  accomplishment,  with  the  others,  as  she  drank  the 
tasteless  fluid  from  tiny  bowls. 

Only  four  o'clock!  What  an  endless  afternoon  it 
had  been ! 

Peter  took  her  home,  and  they  chatted  on  the  steps 
gaily  enough,  in  the  winter  twilight.  But  Susan  cried 
herself  to  sleep  that  night.  This  first  departure  from 
her  rule  had  proven  humiliating  and  disastrous;  she 
determined  not  to  depart  from  it  again. 

Georgie  and  the  doctor  came  to  the  house  for  the 
one  o'clock  Christmas  dinner,  the  doctor  instantly  an- 
tagonizing his  wife's  family  by  the  remark  that  his 
mother  always  had  her  Christmas  dinner  at  night,  and 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  16$ 

had  "consented"  to  their  coming,  on  condition  that  they 
come  home  again  early  in  the  afternoon.  However,  it 
was  delightful  to  have  Georgie  back  again,  and  the 
cousins  talked  and  laughed  together  for  an  hour,  in 
Mary  Lou's  room.  Almost  the  first  question  from 
the  bride  was  of  Susan's  love-affair,  and  what  Peter's 
Christmas  gift  had  been. 

"It  hasn't  come  yet,  so  I  don't  know  myself!"  Susan 
said  readily.  But  that  evening,  when  Georgie  was 
gone  and  her  aunt  and  cousins  were  at  church,  she  sat 
down  to  write  to  Peter. 

MY  DEAR  PETER  (wrote  Susan)  : 

This  is  a  perfectly  exquisite  pin,  and  you  are  a  dear  to  have 
remembered  my  admiring  a  pearl  crescent  months  ago.  I 
never  saw  a  pin  that  I  liked  better,  but  it's  far  too  handsome 
a  gift  for  me  to  keep.  I  haven't  even  dared  show  it  to  Auntie 
and  the  girls!  I  am  sending  it  back  to  you,  though  I  hate  to 
let  it  go,  and  thank  you  a  thousand  times. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

SUSAN  BROWN. 

Peter  answered  immediately  from  the  country  house 
wnere  he  was  spending  the  holidays.  Susan  read  his 
letter  in  the  office,  two  days  after  Christmas. 

DEAR  PANSY  IRENE: 

I  see  Auntie's  fine  Italian  hand  in  this!  You  wait  till  your 
father  gets  home,  I'll  learn  you  to  sass  back!  Tell  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster that  it's  an  imitation  and  came  in  a  box  of  lemon  drops, 
and  put  it  on  this  instant !  The  more  you  wear  the  better,  this 
cold  weather! 

I've  got  the  bulliest  terrier  ever,  from  George.  Show  him 
to  you  next  week.  PETER. 

Frowning  thoughtfully,  her  eyes  still  on  the  scrib- 
bled half-sheet,  Susan  sat  down  at  her  desk,  and 
reached  for  paper  and  pen.  She  wrote  readily,  and 
sent  the  letter  out  at  once  by  the  office  boy. 


164  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

DEAR  PETER: 

Please  don't  make  any  more  fuss  about  the  pin.  I  can't 
accept  it,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  The  candy  was  quite 
enough — I  thought  you  were  going  to  send  me  books.  Hadn't 
you  better  change  your  mind  and  send  me  a  book?  As  ever, 

S.  B. 

To  which  Peter,  after  a  week's  interval,  answered 
briefly: 

DEAR  SUSAN: 

This  fuss  about  the  pin  gives  me  a  pain.  I  gave  a  dozen 
gifts  handsomer  than  that,  and  nobody  else  seems  to  be  kicking. 

Be  a  good  girl,  and  Love  the  Giver.  PETER. 

This  ended  the  correspondence.  Susan  put  the  pin 
away  in  the  back  of  her  bureau-drawer,  and  tried  not 
to  think  about  the  matter. 

January  was  cold  and  dark.  Life  seemed  to  be 
made  to  match.  Susan  caught  cold  from  a  worn-out 
overshoe,  and  spent  an  afternoon  and  a  day  in  bed, 
enjoying  the  rest  from  her  aching  head  to  her  tired 
feet,  but  protesting  against  each  one  of  the  twenty 
trips  that  Mary  Lou  made  up  and  downstairs  for  htr 
comfort.  She  went  back  to  the  office  on  the  third  day, 
but  felt  sick  and  miserable  for  a  long  time  and  gained 
strength  slowly. 

One  rainy  day,  when  Peter  Coleman  was  alone  in 
Mr.  Brauer's  office,  she  took  the  little  jeweler's  box 
In  and  laid  it  beside  him  on  the  desk. 

"This  is  all  darn  foolishness!"  Peter  said,  really 
annoyed. 

"Well "  Susan  shrugged  wearily,  "it's  the  way 

I  feel  about  it." 

"I  thought  you  were  more  of  a  sport!"  he  said 
impatiently,  holding  the  box  as  if  he  did  not  quite 
know  what  to  do  with  it. 

"Perhaps  I'm  not,"  Susan  said  quietly.  She  felt  as 
if  the  world  were  slowly,  dismally  coming  to  an  end, 
but  she  stood  her  ground. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  165 

An  awkward  silence  ensued.  Peter  slipped  the  lit- 
tle box  into  his  pocket.  They  were  both  standing  at  his 
high  desk,  resting  their  elbows  upon  it,  and  half-turned, 
so  that  they  faced  each  other. 

"Well,"  he  said,  discontentedly,  "I've  got  to  give 
you  something  or  other  for  Christmas.  What'll  it 
be?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  Peter,"  Susan  protested,  "just  don't 
3ay  anything  more  about  it!" 

He  meditated,  scowling. 

"Are  you  dated  for  to-morrow  night?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  Susan  said  simply.  The  absence  of  expla- 
nation was  extremely  significant. 

"So  you're  not  going  out  with  me  any  more?"  he 
asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Not — for  awhile,"  Susan  agreed,  with  a  little  dif- 
ficulty. She  felt  a  horrible  inclination  to  cry. 

"Well,  gosh,  I  hope  somebody  is  pleased  at  the 
trouble  she  has  made!"  Peter  burst  out  angrily. 

"If  you  mean  Auntie,  Peter,"  indignation  dried 
Susan's  tears,  "you  are  quite  mistaken !  Anyway,  she 
would  be  quite  right  not  to  want  me  to  accept  expensive 
gifts  from  a  man  whose  position  is  so  different  from 
my  own " 

"Rot!"  said  Peter,  flushing,  "that  sounds  like  ser- 
vants' talk!" 

"Well,  of  course  I  know  it  is  nonsense "  Susan 

began.  And,  despite  her  utmost  effort,  two  tears 
slipped  down  her  cheeks. 

"And  if  we  were  engaged  it  would  be  all  right,  is 
that  it?"  Peter  said,  after  an  embarrassed  pause. 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  think  for  one  in- 
stant  "  Susan  began,  with  flaming  cheeks. 

"I  wish  to  the  Lord  people  would  mind  their  own 
business,"  Peter  said  vexedly.  There  was  a  pause. 
Then  he  added,  cheerfully,  "Tell  'em  we're  engaged 
then,  that'll  shut  'em  up!" 

The  world  rocked  for  Susan. 

"Oh,  but  Peter,  we  can't — it  wouldn't  be  true !" 


166  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Why  wouldn't  it  be  true?"  he  demanded,  per- 
versely. 

"Because  we  aren't!"  persisted  Susan,  rubbing  an 
old  blot  on  the  desk  with  a  damp  forefinger. 

"I  thought  one  day  we  said  that  when  I  was  forty- 
five  and  you  were  forty-one  we  were  going  to  get  mar- 
ried?" Peter  presently  reminded  her,  half  in  earnest, 
half  irritated. 

"D-d-did  we?"  stammered  Susan,  smiling  up  at  him 
through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"Sure  we  did.  We  said  we  were  going  to  start  a 
stock-ranch,  and  raise  racers,  don't  you  remember?" 

A  faint  recollection  of  the  old  joke  came  to  her. 

"Well,  then,  are  we  to  let  people  know  that  in 
twenty  years  we  intend  to  be  married?"  she  asked, 
laughing  uncertainly. 

Peter  gave  his  delighted  shout  of  amusement.  The 
conversation  had  returned  to  familiar  channels. 

"Lord,  don't  tell  anyone!  We'll  know  it,  that's 
enough!"  he  said. 

That  was  all.  There  was  no  chance  for  sentiment, 
they  could  not  even  clasp  hands,  here  in  the  office. 
Susan,  back  at  her  desk,  tried  to  remember  exactly 
what  had  been  said  and  implied. 

"Peter,  I'll  have  to  tell  Auntie !"  she  had  exclaimed. 

Peter  had  not  objected,  had  not  answered  indeed. 

"I'll  have  to  take  my  time  about  telling  my  aunt," 
he  had  said,  "but  there's  time  enough!  See  here, 
Susan,  I'm  dated  with  Barney  White  in  Berkeley  to- 
night— is  that  all  right?" 

"Surely!"  Susan  had  assured  him  laughingly. 

"You  see,"  Peter  had  explained,  "it'll  be  a  very 
deuce  of  a  time  before  we'll  want  everyone  to  know. 
There's  any  number  of  things  to  do.  So  perhaps  it's 
just  as  well  if  people  don't  suspect " 

"Peter,  how  extremely  like  you  not  to  care  what 
people  think  as  long  as  we're  not  engaged,  and  not  to 
want  them  to  suspect  it  when  we  are!"  Susan  could 
say,  smiling  above  the  deep  hurt  in  her  heart. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  167 

And  Peter  laughed  cheerfully  again. 

Then  Mr.  Brauer  came  in,  and  Susan  went  back  to 
her  desk,  brain  and  heart  in  a  whirl.  But  presently 
one  fact  disengaged  itself  from  a  mist  of  doubts  and 
misgivings,  hopes  and  terrors.  She  and  Peter  were 
engaged  to  be  married!  What  if  vows  and  protesta- 
tions, plans  and  confidences  were  still  all  to  come,  what 
if  the  very  first  kiss  was  still  to  come?  The  essential 
thing  remained;  they  were  engaged,  the  question  was 
settled  at  last. 

Peter  was  not,  at  this  time,  quite  the  ideal  lover. 
But  in  what  was  he  ever  conventional;  when  did  he 
ever  do  the  expected  thing?  No;  she  would  gain 
so  much  more  than  any  other  woman  ever  had  gained 
by  her  marriage,  she  would  so  soon  enter  on  a  life  that 
would  make  these  days  seem  only  a  troubled  dream, 
that  she  could  well  afford  to  dispense  with  some  of 
the  things  her  romantic  nature  half  expected  now.  It 
might  not  be  quite  comprehensible  in  him,  but  it  was 
certainly  a  convenience  for  her  that  he  seemed  to  so 
dread  an  announcement  just  now.  She  must  have 
some  gowns  for  the  entertainments  that  would  be  given 
them;  she  must  have  some  money  saved  for  trousseau; 
she  must  arrajige  a  little  tea  at  home,  when,  the  board- 
ers being  eliminated,  Peter  could  come  to  meet  a  few 
of  the  very  special  old  friends.  These  things  took 
time.  Susan  spent  the  dreamy,  happy  afternoon  in 
desultory  planning. 

Peter  went  out  at  three  o'clock  with  Barney  White, 
looking  in  to  nod  Susan  a  smiling  good-by.  Susan 
returned  to  her  dreams,  determined  that  she  would 
find  the  new  bond  as  easy  or  as  heavy  as  he  chose 
to  make  it.  She  had  only  to  wait,  and  fate  would 
bring  this  wonderful  thing  her  way;  it  would  be  quite 
like  Peter  to  want  to  do  the  thing  suddenly,  before 
long,  summon  his  aunt  and  uncle,  her  aunt  and  cousins, 
and  announce  the  wedding  and  engagement  to  the 
world  at  once. 

Lost  in   happy   dreams,    she   did  not   see   Thorny 


168  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

watching  her,  or  catch  the  intense,  wistful  look  with 
which  Mr.  Brauer  so  often  followed  her. 

Susan  had  a  large  share  of  the  young  German's 
own  dreams  just  now,  a  demure  little  Susan  in  a 
checked  gingham  apron,  tasting  jelly  on  a  vine-shaded 
porch,  or  basting  a  chicken  in  a  sunny  kitchen,  or 
pouring  her  lord's  coffee  from  a  shining  pot.  The 
dream  Susan's  hair  was  irreproachably  neat,  she  wore 
shining  little  house-slippers,  and  she  always  laughed 
out, — the  ringing  peal  of  bells  that  Henry  Brauer  had 
once  heard  in  the  real  Susan's  laugh, — when  her  hus- 
band teased  her  about  her  old  fancy  for  Peter  Cole- 
man.  And  the  dream  Susan  was  the  happy  mother  of 
at  least  five  little  girls — all  girls! — a  little  Susan  that 
was  called  "Sanna,"  and  an  Adelaide  for  the  gross- 
mutter  in  the  old  country,  and  a  Henrietta  for  him- 
self  

Clean  and  strong  and  good,  well-born  and  ambi- 
tious, gentle,  and  full  of  the  love  of  books  and  music 
and  flowers  and  children,  here  was  a  mate  at  whose 
side  Susan  might  have  climbed  to  the  very  summit  of 
her  dreams.  But  she  never  fairly  looked  at  Mr. 
Brauer,  and  after  a  few  years  his  plump  dark  little 
dumpling  of  a  Cousin  Linda  came  from  Bremen  to 
teach  music  in  the  Western  city,  and  to  adore  clever 
Cousin  Heinrich,  and  then  it  was  time  to  hunt  for  the 
sunny  kitchen  and  buy  the  shining  coffee-pot  and  chang 
little  Sanna's  name  to  Linchen. 

For  Susan  was  engaged  to  Peter  Coleman!  She 
went  home  on  this  particular  evening  to  find  a  great  box 
of  American  Beauty  roses  waiting  for  her,  and  a 
smaller  box  with  them — the  pearl  crescent  again! 
What  could  the  happy  Susan  do  but  pin  on  a  rose 
with  the  crescent,  her  own  cheeks  two  roses,  and  go 
singing  down  to  dinner? 

"Lovey,  Auntie  doesn't  like  to  see  you  wearing  a 
pin  like  that!"  Mrs.  Lancaster  said,  noticing  it  with 
troubled  eyes.  "Didn't  Peter  send  it  to  you?" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  169 

"Yes'm,"  said  Susan,  dimpling,  as  she  kissed  the 
older  woman. 

"Don't  you  know  that  a  man  has  no  respect  for  a 
girl  who  doesn't  keep  him  a  little  at  a  distance,  dear?" 

"Oh, — is — that — so!"  Susan  spun  her  aunt  about, 
in  a  mad  reel. 

"Susan!"  gasped  Mrs.  Lancaster.  Her  voice 
changed,  she  caught  the  girl  by  the  shoulders,  and 
looked  into  the  radiant  face.  "Susan?"  she  asked. 
"My  child !" 

And  Susan  strangled  her  with  a  hug,  and  whispered, 
"Yes — yes — yes !  But  don't  you  dare  tell  anyone  I" 

Poor  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  quite  unable  to  tell  any- 
one anything  for  a  few  moments.  She  sat  down  in 
her  place,  mechanically  returning  the  evening  greetings 
of  her  guests.  Her  handsome,  florid  face  was  quite 
pale.  The  soup  came  on  and  she  roused  herself  to 
serve  it;  dinner  went  its  usual  way. 

But  going  upstairs  after  dinner,  Mary  Lou,  in- 
formed of  the  great  event  in  some  mysterious  way, 
gave  Susan's  waist  a  girlish  squeeze  and  said  joyously, 
"Ma  had  to  tell  me,  Sue!  I  am  so  glad!"  and  Vir- 
ginia, sitting  with  bandaged  eyes  in  a  darkened  room, 
held  out  both  hands  to  her  cousin,  later  in  the  evening, 
and  said,  "God  bless  our  dear  little  girl!"  Billy  knew 
it  too,  for  the  next  morning  he  gave  Susan  one  of  his 
shattering  hand-grasps  and  muttered  that  he  was 
"darned  glad,  and  Coleman  was  darned  lucky,"  and 
Georgie,  who  was  feeling  a  little  better  than  usual, 
though  still  pale  and  limp,  came  in  to  rejoice  and 
exclaim  later  in  the  day,  a  Sunday. 

All  of  this  made  Susan  vaguely  uneasy.  It  was 
true,  of  course,  and  yet  somehow  it  was  all  too  new, 
too  strange  to  be  taken  quite  happily  as  a  matter  of 
course.  She  could  only  smile  when  Mary  Lou  assured 
her  that  she  must  keep  a  little  carriage;  when  Vir- 
ginia sighed,  "To  think  of  the  good  that  you  can  do" ; 
when  Georgie  warned  her  against  living  with  the  old 
people. 


170  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"It's  awful,  take  my  word  for  it!"  said  Georgie, 
her  hat  laid  aside,  her  coat  loosened,  very  much  enjoy- 
ing a  cup  of  tea  in  the  dining-room.  Young  Mrs. 
O'Connor  did  not  grow  any  closer  to  her  husband's 
mother.  But  it  was  to  be  noticed  that  toward  her 
husband  himself  her  attitude  was  changed.  Joe  was 
altogether  too  smart  to  be  cooped  up  there  in  the 
Mission,  it  appeared;  Joe  was  working  much  too  hard, 
and  yet  he  carried  her  breakfast  upstairs  to  her  every 
morning;  Joe  was  an  angel  with  his  mother. 

"I  wish — of  course  you  can  explain  to  Peter  now — 
but  I  wish  that  I  could  give  you  a  little  engagement 
tea,"  said  Georgie,  very  much  the  matron. 

"Oh,  surely!"  Susan  hastened  to  reassure  her. 
Nothing  could  have  been  less  to  her  liking  than  any 
festivity  involving  the  O'Connors  ju^st  now.  Susan  had 
dined  at  the  gloomy  Mission  Street  house  once,  and 
retained  a  depressing  memory  of  the  dark,  long  par- 
lor, with  only  one  shutter  opened  in  the  bay  window, 
the  grim  elderly  hostess,  in  mourning,  who  watched 
Georgie  incessantly,  the  hard-faced  elderly  maid,  so 
obviously  in  league  with  her  mistress  against  the  new- 
comer, and  the  dinner  that  progressed  from  a  thick, 
sad-looking  soup  to  a  firm,  cold  apple  pie.  There  had 
been  an  altercation  between  the  doctor  and  his  mother 
on  the  occasion  of  Susan's  visit  because  there  had  been 
no  fire  laid  in  Georgie's  big,  cold,  upstairs  bedroom. 
Susan,  remembering  all  this,  could  very  readily  excuse 
Georgie  from  the  exercise  of  any  hospitality  what- 
ever. 

"Don't  give  it  another  thought,  Georgie!"  said  she. 

"There'll  be  entertaining  enough,  soon !"  said  Mary 
Lou. 

"But  we  aren't  going  to  announce  it  for  ever  so 
long!"  Susan  said. 

"Please,  please  don't  tell  anyone  else,  Auntie!"  she 
besought  over  and  over  again. 

"My  darling,  not  for  the  world!  I  can  perfectly 
appreciate  the  delicacy  of  feeling  that  makes  you  wish 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  171 

to  leave  all  that  to  Peter!  And  who  knows?  Only 
ourselves,  and  Billy,  who  is  as  close  to  you  as  a  dear 
brother  could  be,  and  Joe " 

"Oh,  is  Georgie  going  to  tell  Joe?"  Susan  asked, 
dismayed. 

"Well,  now,  perhaps  she  won't,"  Mrs.  Lancaster 
said  soothingly.  "And  I  think  you  will  find  that  a 
certain  young  gentleman  is  only  too  anxious  to  tell 
his  friends  what  a  lovely  girl  he  has  won!"  finished 
Auntie  archly. 

Susan  was  somehow  wretchedly  certain  that  she 
would  find  nothing  of  the  kind.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
it  chanced  to  be  a  week  when  she  had  no  engage- 
ments made  with  Peter,  and  two  days  went  by — three 
— and  still  she  did  not  hear  from  him. 

By  Thursday  she  was  acutely  miserable.  He  was 
evidently  purposely  avoiding  her.  Susan  had  been 
sleeping  badly  for  several  nights,  she  felt  feverish  with 
anxiety  and  uncertainty.  On  Thursday,  when  the  girls 
filed  out  of  the  office  at  noon,  she  kept  her  seat,  for 
Peter  was  in  the  small  office  and  she  felt  as  if  she 
must  have  a  talk  with  him  or  die.  She  heard  him 
come  into  Front  Office  the  moment  she  was  alone,  and 
began  to  fuss  with  her  desk  without  raising  her  eyes. 

"Hello!"  said  Peter,  sitting  on  a  corner  of  the  desk. 
"I've  been  terribly  busy  with  the  Gerald  theatricals, 
and  that's  why  you  haven't  seen  me.  I  promised  Mary 
Gerald  two  months  ago  that  I'd  be  in  'em,  but  by 
George !  she's  leaving  the  whole  darn  thing  to  me  1 
How  are  you?" 

So  gay,  so  big,  so  infinitely  dear!  Susan's  doubts 
melted  like  mist.  She  only  wanted  not  to  make  him 
angry. 

"I've  been  wondering  where  you  were,"  she  said 
mildly. 

"And  a  little  bit  mad  in  spots?"  queried  Peter. 

"Well "  Susan  took  firm  grip  of  her  courage. 

"After  our  little  talk  on  Saturday,"  she  reminded  him, 
smilingly. 


172  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Sure,"  said  Peter.  And  after  a  moment,  thought- 
fully staring  down  at  the  desk,  he  added  again  rather 
heavily,  "Sure." 

"I  told  my  aunt — I  had  to,M  said  Susan  then. 

"Well,  that's  all  right,"  Peter  responded,  after  a 
perceptible  pause.  "Nobody  else  knows?" 

"Oh,  nobody!"  Susan  answered,  her  heart  fluttering 
nervously  at  his  tone,  and  her  courage  suddenly  fail- 
ing. 

"And  Auntie  will  keep  mum,  of  course,"  he  said 
thoughtfully.  "It  would  be  so  deuced  awkward, 
Susan,"  he  began. 

"Oh,  I  know  it!"  she  said  eagerly.  It  seemed  so 
much,  after  the  unhappy  apprehensions  of  the  few 
days  past,  to  have  him  acknowledge  the  engagement, 
to  have  him  only  concerned  that  it  should  not  be  pre- 
maturely made  known ! 

"Can't  we  have  dinner  together  this  evening,  Sue? 
And  go  see  that  man  at  the  Orpheum, — they  say  he's  a 
wonder!" 

"Why,  yes,  we  could.     Peter, "  Susan  made  a 

brave  resolution.     "Peter,  couldn't  you  dine  with  us, 
at  Auntie's,  I  mean?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  could,"  he  said  hesitatingly.  But  the 
moment  had  given  Susan  time  to  reconsider  the  im- 
pulsively given  invitation.  For  a  dozen  reasons  she 
did  not  want  to  take  Peter  home  with  her  to-night. 
The  single  one  that  the  girls  and  Auntie  would  be 
quite  unable  to  conceal  the  fact  that  they  knew  of  her 
engagement  was  enough.  So  when  Peter  said  regret- 
fully, "But  I  thought  we'd  have  more  fun  alone! 
Telephone  your  aunt  and  ask  her  if  we  can't  have  a 
pious  little  dinner  at  the  Palace,  or  at  the  Occidental- 
we'll  not  see  anybody  there !"  Susan  was  only  too  glad 
to  agree. 

Auntie  of  course  consented,  a  little  lenience  was 
permissible  now. 

"...  But  not  supper  afterwards,  dear,"  said 
Auntie.  "If  Peter  teases,  tell  him  that  he  will  have 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  173 

you  to  himself  soon  enough!  And  Sue,"  she  added, 
with  a  hint  of  reproach  in  her  voice,  "remember  that 
we  expect  to  see  Peter  out  here  very  soon.  Of  course 
it's  not  as  if  your  mother  was  alive,  dear,  I  know 
that  I  Still,  even  an  old  auntie  has  some  claim  1" 

"Well,  Auntie,  darling,"  said  Susan,  very  low,  "I 
asked  him  to  dinner  to-night.  And  then  it  occurred 
to  me,  don't  you  know? that  it  might  be  bet- 
ter— '; 

"Gracious  me.  don't  think  of  bringing  him  out  here 
that  way!"  .ejaculated  Mrs.  Lancaster.  "No,  indeed. 
You're  quite  right.  But  arrange  it  for  very  soon, 
Sue." 

"Oh,  surely  I  will !"  Susan  said,  relievedly. 

After  an  afternoon  of  happy  anticipation  it  was  a 
little  disappointing  to  find  that  she  and  Peter  were 
not  to  be  alone,  a  gentle,  pretty  Miss  Hall  and  her 
very  charming  brother  were  added  to  the  party  when 
Peter  met  Susan  at  six  o'clock. 

"Friends  of  Aunt  Clara's,"  Peter  explained  to  Susan. 
"I  had  to!" 

Susan,  liking  the  Halls,  sensibly  made  the  best  of 
them.  She  let  Miss  Katharine  monopolize  Peter,  and 
did  her  best  to  amuse  Sam.  She  was  in  high  spirits  at 
dinner,  laughed,  and  kept  the  others  laughing,  during 
the  play, — for  the  plan  had  been  changed  for  these 
guests,  and  afterwards  was  so  amusing  and  gay  at  the 
little  supper  party  that  Peter  was  his  most  admiring 
self  all  the  way  home.  But  Susan  went  to  bed  with  a 
baffled  aching  in  her  heart.  This  was  not  being  en-,' 
gaged, — something  was  wrong. 

She  did  not  see  Peter  on  Friday;  caught  only  a 
glimpse  of  him  on  Saturday,  and  on  Sunday  learned, 
from  one  of  the  newspapers,  that  "Mr.  Peter  Coleman, 
who  was  to  have  a  prominent  part  in  the  theatricals 
to  take  place  at  Mrs.  Newton  Gerald's  home  next 
week,  would  probably  accompany  Mr.  Forrest  Gerald 
on  a  trip  to  the  Orient  in  February,  to  be  gone  for 
some  months." 


174  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Susan  folded  the  paper,  and  sat  staring  blankly 
ahead  of  her  for  a  long  time.  Then  she  went  to  the 
telephone,  and,  half  stunned  by  the  violent  beating  of 
her  heart,  called  for  the  Baxter  residence. 

Burns  answered.  Mr.  Coleman  had  gone  out  about 
an  hour  ago  with  Mr.  White.  Burns  did  not  know 
where.  Mr.  Coleman  would  be  back  for  a  seven 
oVock  dinner.  Certainly,  Burns  would  ask  him  to 
telephone  at  once  to  Miss  Brown. 

Excited,  troubled,  and  yet  not  definitely  apprehen- 
sive, Susan  dressed  herself  very  prettily,  and  went  out 
into  the  clear,  crisp  sunshine.  She  decided  suddenly 
to  go  and  see  Georgie.  She  would  come  home  early, 
hear  from  Peter,  perhaps  dine  with  him  and  his  uncle 
and  aunt  And,  when  she  saw  him,  she  would  tell  him, 
in  the  jolliest  and  sweetest  way,  that  he  must  make 
his  plans  to  have  their  engagement  announced  at  once. 
Any  other  course  was  unfair  to  her,  to  him,  to  his 
friends. 

If  Peter  objected,  Susan  would  assume  an  offended 
air.  That  would  subdue  him  instantly.  Or,  if  it  did 
not,  they  might  quarrel,  and  Susan  liked  the  definite- 
ness  of  a  quarrel.  She  must  force  this  thing  to  a 
conclusion  one  way  or  the  other  now,  her  own  dignity 
demanded  it.  As  for  Peter,  his  own  choice  was  as  lim- 
ited as  hers.  He  must  agree  to  the  announcement, — 
and  after  all,  why  shouldn't  he  agree  to  it? — or  he 
must  give  Susan  up,  once  and  for  all.  Susan  smiled. 
He  wouldn't  do  that ! 

It  was  a  delightful  day.  The  cars  were  filled  with 
holiday-makers,  and  through  the  pleasant  sunshine  of 
the  streets  young  parents  were  guiding  white-coated 
toddlers,  and  beautifully  dressed  little  girls  were  wheel- 
ing dolls. 

Susan  found  Georgie  moping  alone  in  the  big,  dark, 
ugly  house;  Aggie  was  out,  and  Dr.  O'Connor  and  his 
mother  were  making  their  annual  pilgrimage  to  the 
grave  of  their  husband  and  father.  The  cousins  pre- 
pared supper  together,  in  Aggie's  exquisitely  neat 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  175 

kitchen,  not  that  this  was  really  necessary,  but  because 
the  kitchen  was  so  warm  and  pleasant.  The  kettle 
was  ticking  on  the  back  of  the  range,  a  scoured  empty 
milk-pan  awaited  the  milk-man.  Susan  contrasted  her 
bright  prospects  with  her  cousin's  dull  lot,  even  while 
she  cheerfully  scolded  Georgie  for  being  so  depressed 
and  lachrymose. 

They  fell  to  talking  of  marriage,  Georgie's  recent 
one,  Susan's  approaching  one.  The  wife  gave  delicate 
hints,  the  wife-to-be  revealed  far  more  of  her  secret 
soul  than  she  had  ever  dreamed  of  revealing.  Georgie 
sat,  idly  clasping  the  hands  on  which  the  wedding-ring 
had  grown  loose,  Susan  turned  and  reversed  the  wheels 
of  a  Dover  egg-beater. 

"Marriage  is  such  a  mystery,  before  you're  into 
it,"  Georgie  said.  "But  once  you're  married,  why, 
you  feel  as  if  you  could  attract  any  man  in  the  world. 
No  more  bashfulness,  Sue,  no  more  uncertainty.  You 
treat  men  exactly  as  you  would  girls,  and  of  course 
they  like  it!" 

Susan  pondered  this  going  home.  She  thought  she 
knew  how  to  apply  it  to  her  attitude  toward  Peter. 

Peter  had  not  telephoned.  Susan,  quietly  deter- 
mined to  treat  him,  or  attempt  to  treat  him,  with  at 
least  the  frank  protest  she  would  have  shown  to  an- 
other girl,  telephoned  to  the  Baxter  house  at  once. 
Mr.  Coleman  was  not  yet  at  home. 

Some  of  her  resolution  crumbled.  It  was  very  hard 
to  settle  down,  after  supper,  to  an  evening  of  solitaire. 
In  these  quiet  hours,  Susan  felt  less  confident  of  Peter's 
attitude  when  she  announced  her  ultimatum;  felt  that 
she  must  not  jeopardize  their  friendship  now,  must 
run  no  risks. 

She  had  worked  herself  into  a  despondent  and  dis- 
couraged frame  of  mind  when  the  telephone  rang,  at 
ten  o'clock.  It  was  Peter. 

"Hello,  Sue !"  said  Peter  gaily.  "I'm  just  in.  Burns 
said  that  you  telephoned." 


176  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Burns  said  no  more  than  the  truth,"  said  Susan.  It 
was  the  old  note  of  levity,  anything  but  natural  to 
f  o-night's  mood  and  the  matter  in  hand.  But  it  was 
what  Peter  expected  and  liked.  She  heard  him  laugh 
with  his  usual  gaiety. 

"Yes,  he's  a  truthful  little  soul.  He  takes  after  me. 
What  was  it?" 

Susan  made  a  wry  mouth  in  the  dark. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  she  said,  "I  just  telephoned — I 
thought  we  might  go  out  somewhere  together." 

"Great  Heaven,  we're  engaged!"  she  reminded  her 
sinking  heart,  fiercely. 

"Oh,  too  bad!  1  was  at  the  Gerald's,  at  one  of 
those  darn  rehearsals." 

A  silence. 

"Oh,  all  right!"  said  Susan.  A  writhing  sickness  of 
spirit  threatened  to  engulf  her,  but  her  voice  was 
quiet. 

"I'm  sorry,  Sue,"  Peter  said  quickly  in  a  lower  tone, 
"I  couldn't  very  well  get  out  of  it  without  having  them 
all  suspect.  You  can  see  that!" 

Susan  knew  him  so  well !  He  had  never  had  to  do 
anything  against  his  will.  He  couldn't  understand  that 
his  engagement  entailed  any  obligations.  He  merely 
wanted  always  to  be  happy  and  popular,  and  have 
everyone  else  happy  and  popular,  too. 

"And  what  about  this  trip  to  .Japan  with  Mr. 
Gerald?"  she  asked. 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  Peter  said,  in  an 
annoyed  tone: 

"Oh,  Lord,  that  would  probably  be  for  a  month,  or 
six  weeks  at  the  outside !" 

"I  see,"  said  Susan  tonelessly. 

"I've  got  Forrest  here  with  me  to-night,"  said  Peter, 
apropos  of  nothing. 

"Oh,  then  I  won't  keep  you!"  Susan  said. 

"Well,"  he  laughed,  "don't  be  so  polite  about  it!— 
I'll  see  you  to-morrow?" 

"Surely,"  Susan  said.     "Good-night." 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  177 

"Over  the  reservoir!"  he  said,  and  she  hung  up  her 
receiver. 

She  did  not  sleep  that  night.  Excitement,  anger, 
shame  kept  her  wakeful  and  tossing,  hour  after  hour. 
Susan's  head  ached,  her  face  burned,  her  thoughts 
were  in  a  mad  whirl.  What  to  do — what  to  do— 

what  to  do !  How  to  get  out  of  this  tangle; 

where  to  go  to  begin  again,  away  from  these  people 
who  knew  her  and  loved  her,  and  would  drive  her 
mad  with  their  sympathy  and  curiosity! 

The  clock  struck  three — four — five.  At  five  o'clock 
Susan,  suddenly  realizing  her  own  loneliness  and  loss, 
burst  into  bitter  crying  and  after  that  she  slept. 

The  next  day,  from  the  office,  she  wrote  to  Peter 
Coleman : 

MY  DEAR  PETER: 

I  am  beginning  to  think  that  our  little  talk  in  the  office  a 
•week  ago  was  a  mistake,  and  that  you  think  so.  I  don't  say 
anything  of  my  own  feelings;  you  know  them.  I  want  to  ask 
you  honestly  to  tell  me  of  yours.  Things  cannot  go  on  this 
way.  Affectionately, 

SUSAN. 

This  was  on  Monday.  On  Tuesday  the  papers  re- 
corded everywhere  Mr.  Peter  Coleman's  remarkable 
success  in  Mrs.  Newton  Gerald's  private  theatricals. 
On  Wednesday  Susan  found  a  letter  from  him  on  her 
desk,  in  the  early  afternoon,  scribbled  on  the  handsome 
stationery  of  his  club. 

MY  DEAR  SUSAN  : 

I  shall  always  think  that  you  are  the  bulliest  girl  I  ever  knew, 
and  if  you  throw  me  down  on  that  arrangement  for  our  old 
age  I  shall  certainly  slap  you  on  the  wrist.  But  I  know  you 
will  think  better  of  it  before  you  are  forty-one!  What  you 
mean  by  "things"  I  don't  know.  I  hope  you're  not  calling  me 
a  thing! 

Forrest  is  pulling  my  arm  off.     See  you  soon. 

Yours  as  ever, 

PETER. 


178  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

The  reading  of  it  gave  Susan  a  sensation  of  physical 
illness.  She  felt  chilled  and  weak.  How  false  and 
selfish  and  shallow  it  seemed;  had  Peter  always  been 
that?  And  what  was  she  to  do  now,  to-morrow  and 
the  next  day  and  the  next?  What  was  she  to  do  this 
moment,  indeed?  She  felt  as  if  thundering  agonies 
had  trampled  the  very  life  out  of  her  heart;  yet  some- 
how she  must  look  up,  somehow  face  the  office,  and 
the  curious  eyes  of  the  girls. 

"Love-letter,  Sue?"  said  Thorny,  sauntering  up  with 
a  bill  in  her  hand.  "Valentine's  Day,  you  know!' 

"No,  darling;  a  bill,"  answered  Susan,  shutting  it 
in  a  drawer. 

She  snapped  up  her  light,  opened  her  ledger,  and 
dipped  a  pen  in  the  ink, 


PART  TWO 

Wealth 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  days  that  followed  were  so  many  separate 
agonies,  composed  of  an  infinite  number  of  lesser 
agonies,  for  Susan.  Her  only  consolation,  which  weak- 
ened or  strengthened  with  her  moods,  was  that,  inas- 
much as  this  state  of  affairs  was  unbearable  she  would 
not  be  expected  to  bear  it.  Something  must  happen. 
Or,  if  nothing  happened,  she  would  simply  disappear, 
— go  on  the  stage,  accept  a  position  as  a  traveling 
governess  or  companion,  run  away  to  one  of  the  big 
eastern  cities  where,  under  an  assumed  name,  she  might 
begin  life  all  over  again. 

Hour  after  hour  shame  and  hurt  had  their  way 
with  her.  Susan  had  to  face  the  office,  to  hide  her 
heart  from  Thorny  and  the  other  girls,  to  be  reminded 
by  the  empty  desk  in  Mr.  Brauer's  office,  and  by  every 
glimpse  she  had  of  old  Mr.  Baxter,  of  the  happy 
dreams  she  had  once  dreamed  here  in  this  same  place. 

But  it  was  harder  far  at  home.  Mrs.  Lancaster 
alternated  between  tender  moods,  when  she  discussed 
the  whole  matter  mournfully  from  beginning  to  end, 
and  moods  of  violent  rebellion,  when  everyone  but 
Susan  was  blamed  for  the  bitter  disappointment  of  all 
their  hopes.  Mary  Lou  compared  Peter  to  Ferd  East- 
man, to  Peter's  disadvantage.  Virginia  recommended 
quiet,  patient  endurance  of  whatever  might  be  the 
will  of  Providence.  Susan  hardly  knew  which  attitude 
humiliated  and  distressed  her  most.  All  her  thoughts 
led  her  into  bitterness  now,  and  she  could  be  distracted 
only  for  a  brief  moment  or  two  from  the  memories 
that  pressed  so  close  about  her  heart.  Ah,  if  she  only 
had  a  little  money,  enough  to  make  possible  her  run- 

181 


182  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

ning  away,  or  a  profession  into  which  she  could  plunge, 
and  in  which  she  could  distinguish  herself,  or  a  great 
talent,  or  a  father  who  would  stand  by  her  and  take 
care  of  her 

And  the  bright  head  would  go  down  on  her  hands, 
and  the  tears  have  their  way. 

"Headache?"  Thorny  would  ask,  full  of  sympathy. 

uOh,  splitting!"  And  Susan  would  openly  dry  her 
eyes,  and  manage  to  smile. 

Sometimes,  in  a  softer  mood,  her  busy  brain 
straightened  the  whole  matter  out.  Peter,  returning 
from  Japan,  would  rush  to  her  with  a  full  explanation. 
Of  course  he  cared  for  her — he  had  never  thought  of 
anything  else — of  course  he  considered  that  they  were 
engaged!  And  Susan,  after  keeping  him  in  suspense 
for  a  period  that  even  Auntie  thought  too  long,  would 
find  herself  talking  to  him,  scolding,  softening,  finally 
laughing,  and  at  last — and  for  the  first  time ! — in  his 
arms. 

Only  a  lovers'  quarrel;  one  heard  of  them  contin- 
ually. Something  to  laugh  about  and  to  forget! 

She  took  up  the  old  feminine  occupation  of  watch- 
ing the  post,  weak  with  sudden  hope  when  Mary  Lou 
called  up  to  her,  "Letter  for  you  on  the  mantel,  Sue !" 
and  sick  with  disappointment  over  and  over  again. 
Peter  did  not  write. 

Outwardly  the  girl  went  her  usual  round,  perhaps 
a  little  thinner  and  with  less  laughter,  but  not  notice- 
ably changed.  She  basted  cuffs  into  her  office  suit,  and 
cleaned  it  with  benzine,  caught  up  her  lunch  and  um- 
brella and  ran  for  her  car.  She  lunched  and  gossiped 
with  Thorny  and  the  others,  walked  uptown  at  noon 
to  pay  a  gas-bill,  took  Virginia  to  the  Park  on  Sun- 
days to  hear  the  music,  or  visited  the  Carrolls  in 
Sausalito. 

But  inwardly  her  thoughts  were  like  whirling  web. 
And  in  its  very  center  was  Peter  Coleman.  Every- 
thing that  Susan  did  began  and  ended  with  the  thought 
of  him.  She  never  entered  the  office  without  the  hope 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  183 

that  a  fat  envelope,  covered  with  his  dashing  scrawl, 
lay  on  the  desk.  She  never  thought  herself  looking 
well  without  wishing  that  she  might  meet  Peter  that 
day,  or  looking  ill  that  she  did  net  fear  it.  She  an- 
swered the  telephone  with  a  thrilling  heart;  it  might 
be  he!  And  she  browsed  over  the  social  columns  of 
the  Sunday  papers,  longing  and  fearing  to  find  his 
name.  All  day  long  and  far  into  the  night,  her  brain 
was  busy  with  a  reconciliation, — excuses,  explanations, 
forgiveness.  "Perhaps  to-day,"  she  said  in  the  foggy 
mornings.  "To-morrow,"  said  her  undaunted  heart 
at  night. 

The  hope  was  all  that  sustained  her,  and  how  bit- 
terly it  failed  her  at  times  only  Susan  knew.  Before 
the  world  she  kept  a  brave  face,  evading  discussion 
of  Peter  when  she  could,  quietly  enduring  it  when  Mrs. 
Lancaster's  wrath  boiled  over.  But  as  the  weeks  went 
by,  and  the  full  wretchedness  of  the  situation  impressed 
itself  upon  her  with  quiet  force,  she  sank  under  an 
overwhelming  sense  of  wrong  and  loss.  Nothing 
amazing  was  going  to  happen.  She — who  had  seemed 
so  free,  so  independent! — was  really  as  fettered  and 
as  helpless  as  Virginia  and  Mary  Lou.  Susan  felt 
sometimes  as  if  she  should  go  mad  with  suppressed 
feeling.  She  grew  thin,  dyspeptic,  irritable,  working 
hard,  and  finding  her  only  relief  in  work,  and  reading 
in  bed  in  the  evening. 

The  days  slowly  pushed  her  further  and  further 
from  those  happy  times  when  she  and  Peter  had  been 
such  good  friends,  had  gone  about  so  joyfully  together. 
It  was  a  shock  to  Susan  to  realize  that  she  had  not 
seen  him  nor  heard  from  him  for  a  month — for  two 
months — for  three.  Emily  Saunders  was  in  the  hos- 
pital for  some  serious  operation,  would  be  there  for 
weeks;  Ella  was  abroad.  Susan  felt  as  if  her  little 
glimpse  of  their  world  and  Peter's  had  been  a  curious 
dream. 

Billy  played  a  brother's  part  toward  her  now,  always 
ready  to  take  her  about  with  him  when  he  was  free, 


184  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

and  quite  the  only  person  who  could  spur  her  to  any- 
thing like  her  old  vigorous  interest  in  life.  They  went 
very  often  to  the  Carrolls,  and  there,  in  the  shabby 
old  sitting-room,  Susan  felt  happier  than  she  did  any- 
where else.  Everybody  loved  her,  loved  to  have  her 
there,  and  although  they  knew,  and  she  knew  that  they 
knew,  that  something  had  gone  very  wrong  with  her, 
nobody  asked  questions,  and  Susan  felt  herself  safe  and 
sheltered.  There  was  a  shout  of  joy  when  she  came 
in  with  Phil  and  Jo  from  the  ferryboat.  "Mother! 
here's  Sue!"  Betsey  would  follow  the  older  girls  up- 
stairs to  chatter  while  they  washed  their  hands  and 
brushed  their  hair,  and,  going  down  again,  Susan  would 
get  the  motherly  kiss  that  followed  Jo's.  Later,  when 
the  lamp  was  lit,  while  Betsey  and  Jim  wrangled  amic- 
ably over  their  game,  and  Philip  and  Jo  toiled  with 
piano  and  violin,  Susan  sat  next  to  Mrs.  Carroll,  and 
while  they  sewed,  or  between  snatches  of  reading,  they 
had  long,  and  to  the  girl  at  least,  memorable  talks. 

It  was  all  sweet  and  wholesome  and  happy.  Susan 
used  to  wonder  just  what  made  this  house  different 
from  all  other  houses,  and  why  she  liked  to  come 
here  so  much,  to  eat  the  simplest  of  meals,  to  wash 
dishes  and  brush  floors,  to  rise  in  the  early  morning 
and  cross  the  bay  before  the  time  she  usually  came 
downstairs  at  home.  Of  course,  they  loved  her,  they 
laughed  at  her  jokes,  they  wanted  this  thing  repeated 
and  that  repeated,  they  never  said  good-by  to  her 
without  begging  her  to  come  again  and  thought  no 
special  occasion  complete  without  her.  That  affected 
her,  perhaps.  Or  perhaps  the  Carrolls  were  a  little 
nicer  than  most  people;  when  Susan  reached  this  point 
in  her  thoughts  she  never  failed  to  regret  the  loss  of 
their  money  and  position.  If  they  had  done  this  in 
spite  of  poverty  and  obscurity,  what  mightn't  they  have 
done  with  half  a  chance ! 

In  one  of  the  lamplight  talks  Peter  was  mentioned, 
in  connection  with  the  patent  window-washer,  and 
Susan  learned  for  the  first  time  that  he  really  had  been 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  185 

instrumental  in  selling  the  patent  for  Mrs.  Carroll  for 
the  astonishing  sum  of  five  hundred  dollars! 

"I  begged  him  to  tell  me  if  that  wasn't  partly  from 
the  washer  and  partly  from  Peter  Coleman,"  smiled 
Mrs.  Carroll,  "and  he  gave  me  his  word  of  honor  that 
he  had  really  sold  it  for  that  1  So — there  went  my  doc- 
tor's bill,  and  a  comfortable  margin  in  the  bank!" 

She  admitted  Susan  into  the  secret  of  all  her  little 
economies ;  the  roast  that,  cleverly  alternated  with  one 
or  two  small  meats,  was  served  from  Sunday  until 
Saturday  night,  and  no  one  any  the  worse !  Susan  be- 
gan to  watch  the  game  that  Mrs.  Carroll  made  of  her 
cooking;  filling  soups  for  the  night  that  the  meat  was 
short,  no  sweet  when  the  garden  supplied  a  salad,  or 
when  Susan  herself  brought  over  a  box  of  candy.  She 
grew  to  love  the  labor  that  lay  behind  the  touch  of 
the  thin,  darned  linen,  the  windows  that  shone  with 
soapsuds,  the  crisp  snowy  ruffles  of  curtains  and  beds. 
She  and  Betts  liked  to  keep  the  house  vases  filled  with 
what  they  could  find  in  the  storm-battered  garden, 
lifted  the  flattened  chrysanthemums  with  reverent  fin- 
gers, hunted  out  the  wet  violets.  Susan  abandoned 
her  old  idea  of  the  enviable  life  of  a  lonely  orphan, 
and  began  to  long  for  a  sister,  a  tumble-headed 
brother,  for  a  mother  above  all.  She  loved  to  be 
included  by  the  young  Carrolls  when  they  protested, 
"Just  ourselves,  Mother,  nobody  but  the  family!"  and 
if  Phil  or  Jimmy  came  to  her  when  a  coat-button  was 
loose  or  a  sleeve-lining  needed  a  stitch,  she  was  quite 
pathetically  touched.  She  loved  the  constant  happy 
noise  and  confusion  in  the  house,  Phil  and  Billy  Oliver 
tussling  in  the  stair-closet  among  the  overshoes,  Betts 
trilling  over  her  bed-making,  Mrs.  Carroll  and  Jim 
replanting  primroses  with  great  calling  and  confer- 
ence, and  she  and  Josephine  talking,  as  they  swept  the 
porches,  as  if  they  had  never  had  a  chance  to  talk 
before. 

Sometimes,  walking  at  Anna's  side  to  the  beach  on 
Sunday,  a  certain  peace  and  content  crept  into  Susan's 


186  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

heart,  and  the  deep  ache  lifted  like  a  curtain,  and 
seemed  to  show  a  saner,  wider,  sweeter  region  beyond. 
Sometimes,  tramping  the  wet  hills,  her  whole  being 
thrilled  to  some  new  note,  Susan  could  think  serenely 
of  the  future,  could  even  be  glad  of  all  the  past.  It 
was  as  if  Life,  into  whose  cold,  stern  face  she  had 
been  staring  wistfully,  had  softened  to  the  glimmer 
of  a  smile,  had  laid  a  hand,  so  lately  used  to  strike, 
upon  her  shoulder  in  token  of  good-fellowship. 

With  the  good  salt  air  in  their  faces,  and  the  gray 
March  sky  pressing  close  above  the  silent  circle  of 
the  hills  about  them,  she  and  Anna  walked  many  a 
bracing,  tiring  mile.  Now  and  then  they  turned  and 
smiled  at  each  other,  both  young  faces  brightening. 

"Noisy,   aren't  we,   Sue?" 

"Well,  the  others  are  making  noise  enough!" 

Poverty  stopped  them  at  every  turn,  these  Carrolls. 
Susan  saw  it  perhaps  more  clearly  than  they  did.  A 
hundred  delightful  and  hospitable  plans  came  into 
Mrs.  Carroll's  mind,  only  to  be  dismissed  because  of 
the  expense  involved.  She  would  have  liked  to  enter- 
tain, to  keep  her  pretty  daughters  becomingly  and 
richly  dressed;  she  confided  to  Susan  rather  wistfully, 
that  she  was  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  end  the  evenings 
with  little  chafing-dish  suppers;  "that  sort  of  thing 
makes  home  so  attractive  to  growing  boys."  Susan 
knew  what  Anna's  own  personal  grievance  was. 
"These  are  the  best  years  of  my  life,"  Anna  said,  bit- 
terly, one  night,  "and  every  cent  of  spending  money 
I  have  is  the  fifty  dollars  a  year  the  hospital  pays. 
And  even  out  of  that  they  take  breakage,  in  the  lab- 
oratory or  the  wards !"  Josephine  made  no  secret  of 
her  detestation  of  their  necessary  economies. 

"Did  you  know  I  was  asked  to  the  Juniors  this 
year?"  she  said  to  Susan  one  night. 

"The  Juniors!  You  weren't!"  Susan  echoed  incred- 
ulously. For  the  "Junior  Cotillion"  was  quite  the 
most  exclusive  and  desirable  of  the  city's  winter  dances 
for  the  younger  set. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  187 

"Oh,  yes,  I  was.  Mrs.  Wallace  probably  did  it," 
Josephine  assured  her,  sighing.  "They  asked  Anna 
last  year,"  she  said  bitterly,  "and  I  suppose  next  year 
they'll  ask  Betts,  and  then  perhaps  they'll  stop." 

"Oh,  but  Jo — why  couldn't  you  go !  When  so  many 
girls  are  just  crazy  to  be  asked!" 

"Money,"  Josephine  answered  briefly. 

"But  not  much!"  Susan  lamented.  The  "Juniors" 
were  not  to  be  estimated  in  mere  money. 

"Twenty-five  for  the  ticket,  and  ten  for  the  chap- 
erone,  and  a  gown,  of  course,  and  slippers  and  a  wrap 
— Mother  felt  badly  about  it,"  J°sephine  said  com- 
posedly. And  suddenly  she  burst  into  tears,  and  threw 
herself  down  on  the  bed.  "Don't  let  Mother  hear, 
and  don't  think  I'm  an  idiot!"  she  sobbed,  as  Susan 
came  to  kneel  beside  her  and  comfort  her,  "but — but 
I  hate  so  to  drudge  away  day  after  day,  when  I  know 
I  could  be  having  gorgeous  times,  and  making 
friends !" 

Betts'  troubles  -were  more  simple  in  that  they  were 
indefinite.  Betts  wanted  to  do  everything,  regardless 
of  cost,  suitability  or  season,  and  was  quite  as  cross 
over  the  fact  that  they  could  not  go  camping  in  the 
Humboldt  woods  in  midwinter,  as  she  was  at  having 
to  give  up  her  ideas  of  a  new  hat  or  a  theater  trip. 
And  the  boys  never  complained  specifically  of  poverty. 
Philip,  won  by  deep  plotting  that  he  could  not  see  to 
settle  down  quietly  at  home  after  dinner,  was  the  gay- 
est and  best  of  company,  and  Jim's  only  allusions  to 
a  golden  future  were  made  when  he  rubbed  his  affec- 
tionate little  rough  head  against  his  mother,  pony- 
fashion,  and  promised  her  every  luxury  in  the  world 
as  soon  as  he  "got  started." 

When  Peter  Coleman  returned  from  the  Orient, 
early  in  April,  all  the  newspapers  chronicled  the  fact 
that  a  large  number  of  intimate  friends  met  him  at 
the  dock.  He  was  instantly  swept  into  the  social  cur- 
rents again;  dinners  everywhere  were  given  for  Mr. 


188  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Coleman,  box-parties  and  house-parties  followed  one 
another,  the  club  claimed  him,  and  the  approaching 
opening  of  the  season  found  him  giving  special  atten- 
tion to  his  yacht.  Small  wonder  that  Hunter,  Baxter 
&  Hunter's  caught  only  occasional  glimpses  of  him. 
Susan,  somberly  pursuing  his  name  from  paper  to 
paper,  felt  that  she  was  beginning  to  dislike  him.  She 
managed  never  to  catch  his  eye,  when  he  was  in  Mr. 
Brauer's  office,  and  took  great  pains  not  to  meet  him. 

However,  in  the  lingering  sweet  twilight  of  a  cer- 
tain soft  spring  evening,  when  she  had  left  the  office, 
and  was  beginning  the  long  walk  home,  she  heard 
sudden  steps  behind  her,  and  turned  to  see  Peter. 

"Aren't  you  the  little  seven-leagued  hooter !  Wait  a 
minute,  Susan!  C'est  mol!  How  are  you?" 

"How  do  you  do,  Peter?"  Susan  said  pleasantly  and 
evenly.  She  put  her  hand  in  the  big  gloved  hand,  and 
raised  her  eyes  to  the  smiling  eyes. 

"What  car  are  you  making  for?"  he  asked,  falling  in 
step. 

"I'm  walking,"  Susan  said.  "Too  nice  to  ride  this 
evening." 

"You're  right,"  he  said,  laughing.  "I  wish  I  hadn't 
a  date,  I'd  like  nothing  better  than  to  walk  it,  too ! 
However,  I  can  go  a  block  or  two." 

He  walked  with  her  to  Montgomery  Street,  and 
they  talked  of  Japan  and  the  Carrolls  and  of  Emily 
Saunders.  Then  Peter  said  he  must  catch  a  California 
Street  car,  and  they  shook  hands  again  and  parted. 

It  all  seemed  rather  flat.  Susan  felt  as  if  the  little 
episode  did  not  belong  in  the  stormy  history  of  their 
friendship  at  all,  or  as  if  she  were  long  dead  and  were 
watching  her  earthly  self  from  a  distance  with  wise 
and  weary  eyes.  What  should  she  be  feeling  now? 
What  would  a  stronger  woman  have  done?  Given 
him  the  cut  direct,  perhaps,  or  forced  the  situation  to  a 
point  when  something  dramatic — satisfying — must 
follow. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  189 

"I  am  weak,"  said  Susan  ashamedly  to  herself;  "t 
was  afraid  he  would  think  I  cared, — would  see  that  I 
cared!"  And  she  walked  on  busy  with  self-contemptu- 
ous and  humiliated  thoughts.  She  had  made  it  easy 
for  him  to  take  advantage  of  her.  She  had  assumed 
for  his  convenience  that  she  had  suffered  no  more  than 
he  through  their  parting,  and  that  all  was  again  serene 
and  pleasant  between  them.  After  to-night's  casual, 
friendly  conversation,  no  radical  attitude  would  be  pos- 
sible on  her  part;  he  could  congratulate  himself  that 
he  still  retained  Susan's  friendship,  and  could  be  care- 
ful— she  knew  he  would  be  careful ! — never  to  go  too 
far  again. 

Susan's  estimate  of  Peter  Coleman  was  no  longer  a 
particularly  idealized  one.  But  she  had  long  ago  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  his  faults  were  the  faults  of  his 
type  and  his  class,  excusable  and  understandable  now, 
and  to  be  easily  conquered  when  a  great  emotion 
should  sweep  him  once  and  for  all  away  from  the 
thought  of  himself.  As  he  was  absorbed  in  the  thought 
of  his  own  comfort,  so,  she  knew,  he  could  become  ab- 
sorbed in  the  thought  of  what  was  due  his  wife,  the 
wider  viewpoint  would  quickly  become  second  nature 
with  him;  young  Mrs.  Peter  Coleman  would  be  among 
the  most  indulged  and  carefully  considered  of  women. 
He  would  be  as  anxious  that  the  relationship  between 
his  wife  and  himself  should  be  harmonious  and  happy, 
as  he  was  now  to  feel  when  he  met  her  that  he  had  no 
reason  to  avoid  or  to  dread  meeting  Miss  Susan 
Brown. 

If  Susan  would  have  preferred  a  little  different  atti- 
tude on  his  part,  she  could  find  no  fault  with  this  one. 
She  had  for  so  many  months  thought  of  Peter  as  the 
personification  of  all  that  she  desired  in  life  that  she 
could  not  readily  dismiss  him  as  unworthy.  Was  he 
not  still  sweet  and  big  and  clean,  rich  and  handsome 
and  popular,  socially  prominent  and  suitable  in  age 
and  faith  and  nationality? 

Susan   had   often   heard   her   aunt  and  her   aunt's 


190  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

friends  remark  that  life  was  more  dramatic  than  any 
book,  and  that  their  own  lives  on  the  stage  would 
eclipse  in  sensational  quality  any  play  ever  presented. 
But,  for  herself,  life  seemed  deplorably,  maddeningly 
undramatic.  In  any  book,  in  any  play,  the  situation 
between  her  and  Peter  must  have  been  heightened  to  a 
definite  crisis  long  before  this.  The  mildest  of  little 
ingenues,  as  she  came  across  a  dimly  lighted  stage,  in 
demure  white  and  silver,  could  have  handled  this  situa- 
tion far  more  skillfully  than  Susan  did;  the  most  youth- 
ful of  heroines  would  have  met  Peter  to  some  pur- 
pose,— while  surrounded  by  other  admirers  at  a  dance, 
or  while  galloping  across  a  moor  on  her  spirited  pony. 
What  would  either  of  these  ladies  have  done,  she 
wondered,  at  meeting  the  offender  when  he  appeared 
particularly  well-groomed,  prosperous  and  happy, 
while  she  herself  was  tired  from  a  long  office  day,  con- 
scious of  shabby  gloves,  of  a  shapeless  winter  hat? 
What  could  she  do,  except  appear  friendly  and  re- 
sponsive? Susan  consoled  herself  with  the  thought 
that  her  only  alternative,  an  icy  repulse  of  hi*  friendly 
advances,  would  have  either  convinced  him  that  she 
was  too  entirely  common  and  childish  to  be  worth 
another  thought,  or  would  have  amused  him  hugely. 
She  could  fancy  him  telling  his  friends  of  his  experi- 
ence of  the  cut  direct  from  a  little  girl  in  Front  Office, 
— no  names  named — and  hear  him  saying  that  "he 
loved  it — he  was  crazy  about  it!" 

"You  believe  in  the  law  of  compensation,  don't 
you,  Aunt  Jo?"  asked  Susan,  on  a  wonderful  April 
afternoon,  when  she  had  gone  straight  from  the  office 
to  Sausalito.  The  two  women  were  in  the  Carroll 
kitchen,  Susan  sitting  at  one  end  of  the  table,  her 
thoughtful  face  propped  in  her  hands,  Mrs.  Carroll 
busy  making  ginger  cakes, — cutting  out  the  flat  little 
circles  with  an  inverted  wine-glass,  transferring  them 
to  the  pans  with  the  tip  of  her  flat  knife,  rolling  the 
smooth  dough,  and  spilling  the  hot  cakes,  as  they 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  191 

lame  back  from  the  oven,  into  a  deep  tin  strainer  to 
jool.  Susan  liked  to  watch  her  doing  this,  liked  the 
pretty  precision  of  every  movement,  the  brisk  yet  un- 
aurried  repetition  of  events,  her  strong  clever  hands, 
jhe  absorbed  expression  of  her  face,  her  fine,  broad 
Sgure  hidden  by  a  stiffly-starched  gown  of  faded  blue 
cotton  and  a  stiff  white  apron. 

Beyond  the  open  window  an  exquisite  day  dropped 
to  its  close.  It  was  the  time  of  fruit-blossoms  and 
feathery  acacia,  languid,  perfumed  breezes,  lengthen- 
ing twilights,  opening  roses  and  swaying  plumes  of 
Jllac.  Sausalito  was  like  a  little  park,  every  garden 
lan  over  with  sweetness  and  color,  every  walk  was 
fringed  with  flowers,  and  hedged  with  the  new  green 
>f  young  trees  and  blossoming  hedges.  Susan  felt  a 
.Jelicious  relaxation  run  through  her  blood;  winter 
)eemed  really  routed;  to-day  for  the  first  time  one 
.{ould  confidently  prophesy  that  there  would  be  sum- 
ner  presently,  thin  gowns  and  ocean  bathing  and  splen- 
Jid  moons. 

"Yes,  I  believe  in  the  law  of  compensation,  to  a 
|reat  extent,"  the  older  woman  answered  thoughtfully, 
or  perhaps  I  should  call  it  the  law  of  solution.  I 
Iruly  believe  that  to  everyone  of  us  on  this  earth  is 
jiven  the  materials  for  a  useful  and  a  happy  life; 
)ome  people  use  them  and  some  don't.  But  the  chance 
Is  given  alike." 

"Useful,  yes,"  Susan  conceded,  "but  usefulness  isn't 
happiness." 

"Isn't  it?    I  really  think  it  is." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Jo,"  the  girl  burst  out  impatiently,  "I 
don't  mean  for  saints!  I  dare  say  there  are  some 
rirls  who  wouldn't  mind  being  poor  and  shabby  and 
lonesome  and  living  in  a  boarding-house,  and  who 
tfould  be  glad  they  weren't  hump-backed,  or  blind,  or 
Siberian  prisoners !  But  you  can't  say  you  think  that 
I  girl  in  my  position  has  had  a  fair  start  with  a  girl 
jrho  is  just  as  young,  and  rich  and  pretty  and  clever, 
has  a  father  and  mother  and  everything  else  in 


192  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

the  world!  And  if  you  do  say  so,"  pursued  Susan, 
with  feeling,  "you  certainly  can't  mean  so ' 

"But  wait  a  minute,  Sue !    What  girl,  for  instance?" 

"Oh,  thousands  of  girls!"  Susan  said,  vaguely. 
"Emily  Saunders,  Alice  Chauncey " 

"Emily  Saunders!  Susan!  In  the  hospital  for  an 
operation  every  other  month  or  two!"  Mrs.  Carroll 
reminded  her. 

"Well,  but "  Susan  said  eagerly.  "She  isn't 

really  ill.  She  just  likes  the  excitement  and  having 
them  fuss  over  her.  She  loves  the  hospital." 

"Still,  I  wouldn't  envy  anyone  whose  home  life 
wasn't  preferable  to  the  hospital,  Sue." 

"Well,  Emily  is  queer,  Aunt  Jo.  But  in  her  place 
I  wouldn't  necessarily  be  queer." 

"At  the  same  time,  considering  her  brother  Ken- 
neth's rather  checkered  career,  and  the  fact  that  her 
big  sister  neglects  and  ignores  her,  and  that  her  health 
is  really  very  delicate,  I  don't  consider  Emily  a  happy 
choice  for  your  argument,  Sue." 

"Well,  there's  Peggy  Brock.  She's  a  perfect 
beauty " 

"She's  a  Wellington,  Sue.  You  know  that  stock. 
How  many  of  them  are  already  in  institutions?" 

"Oh,  but  Aunt  Jo !"  Susan  said  impatiently,  "there 
are  dozens  of  girls  in  society  whose  health  is  good, 
and  whose  family  isn't  insane, — I  don't  know  why  I 
chose  those  two !  There  are  the  Chickerings " 

"Whose  father  took  his  own  life,  Sue." 

"Well,  they  couldn't  help  that.  They're  lovely 
girls.  It  was  some  money  trouble,  it  wasn't  insanity 
or  drink." 

"But  think  a  moment,  Sue.  Wouldn't  it  haunt  you 
for  a  long,  long  time,  if  you  felt  that  your  own  father, 
coming  home  to  that  gorgeous  house  night  after  night, 
had  been  slowly  driven  to  the  taking  of  his  own  life?" 

Susan  looked  thoughtful. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  she  admitted.  Presently 
she  added  brightly,  "There  are  the  Ward  girls,  Aunt 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  193 

Jo,  and  Isabel  Wallace.  You  couldn't  find  three  pret- 
tier or  richer  or  nicer  girls !  Say  what  you  will,"  Susan 
returned  undauntedly  to  her  first  argument,  "life  is 
easier  for  those  girls  than  for  the  rest  of  us!" 

"Well,  I  want  to  call  your  attention  to  those  three," 
Mrs.  Carroll  said,  after  a  moment.  "Both  Mr.  Wal- 
lace and  Mr.  Ward  made  their  own  money,  started 
in  with  nothing  and  built  up  their  own  fortunes.  Phil 
may  do  that,  or  Billy  may  do  that — we  can't  tell. 
Mrs.  Ward  and  Mrs.  Wallace  are  both  nice,  simple 
women,  not  spoiled  yet  by  money,  not  inflated  on  the 
subject  of  family  and  position,  bringing  up  their  fam- 
ilies as  they  were  brought  up.  I  don't  know  Mrs. 
Ward  personally,  but  Mrs.  Wallace  came  from  my 
own  town,  and  she  likes  to  remember  the  time  when 
her  husband  was  only  a  mining  engineer,  and  she  did 
her  own  work.  You  may  not  see  it,  Sue,  but  there's 
a  great  difference  there.  Such  people  are  happy  and 
useful,  and  they  hand  happiness  on.  Peter  Coleman's 
another,  he's  so  exceptionally  nice  because  he's  only 
one  generation  removed  from  working  people.  If 
Isabel  Wallace, — and  she's  very  young;  life  may  be 
unhappy  enough  for  her  yet,  poor  child! — marries  a 
man  like  her  father,  well  and  good.  But  if  she  mar- 
ries a  man  like — well,  say  Kenneth  Saunders  or  young 
Gerald,  she  simply  enters  into  the  ranks  of  the  idle 
and  useless  and  unhappy,  that's  all." 

"She's  beautiful,  and  she's  smart  too,"  Susan  pur- 
sued, disconsolately,  "Emily  and  I  lunched  there  one 
day  and  she  was  simply  sweet  to  the  maids,  and  to 
her  mother.  And  German!  I  wish  you  could  hear 
her.  She  may  not  be  of  any  very  remarkable  family 
but  she  certainly  is  an  exceptional  girl!" 

"Exceptional,  just  because  she  isn't  descended  from 
some  dead,  old,  useless  stock,"  amended  Mrs.  Carroll. 
"There  is  red  blood  in  her  veins,  ambition  and  effort 
and  self-denial,  all  handed  down  to  her.  But  marry 
that  pampered  little  girl  to  some  young  millionaire, 
Sue,  and  what  will  her  children  inherit?  And  what 


194  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

will  theirs,  in  time? — Peel  these,  will  you?"  went  on 
Mrs.  Carroll,  interrupting  her  work  to  put  a  bowl  of 
apples  in  Susan's  hands.  "No,"  she  went  on  presently, 
"I  married  a  millionaire,  Sue.  I  was  one  of  the  'luckv' 
ones!" 

"I  never  knew  it  was  as  much  as  that!"  Susan  said 
impressed. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Carroll  laughed  wholesomely  at  some 
memory.  "Yes;  I  began  my  married  life  in  the  very 
handsomest  home  in  our  little  town  with  the  prettiest 
presents  and  the  most  elaborate  wardrobe — the  papers 
were  full  of  Miss  Josie  van  Trent's  extravagances.  I 
had  four  house  servants,  and  when  Anna  came  every- 
body in  town  knew  that  her  little  layette  had  come  all 
the  way  from  Paris!" 

"But, — good  heavens,  what  happened?" 

"Nothing,  for  awhile.  Mr.  Carroll,  who  was  very 
young,  had  inherited  a  half-interest  in  what  was  then 
the  biggest  shoe-factory  in  that  part  of  the  world.  My 
father  was  his  partner.  Philip — dear  me!  it  seems 
like  a  lifetime  ago! — came  to  visit  us,  and  I  came 
home  from  an  Eastern  finishing  school.  Sue,  those 
were  silly,  happy,  heavenly  days!  Well!  we  were 
married,  as  I  said.  Little  Phil  came,  Anna  came. 
Still  we  went  on  spending  money.  Phil  and  I  took  the 
children  to  Paris, — Italy.  Then  my  father  died, 
and  things  began  to  go  badly  at  the  works.  Phil  dis- 
charged his  foreman,  borrowed  money  to  tide 
over  a  bad  winter,  and  said  that  he  would  be  his  own 
superintendent.  Of  course  he  knew  nothing  about  it. 
We  borrowed  more  money.  Jo  was  the  baby  then, 
and  I  remember  one  ugly  episode  was  that  the  work- 
men, who  wanted  more  money,  accused  Phil  of  get- 
ting his  children's  clothes  abroad  because  his  wife 
didn't  think  American  things  were  good  enough  for 
them." 

"You!"  Susan  said,  incredulously. 

"It  doesn't  sound  like  me  now,  does  it?  Well;  Phil 
put  another  foreman  in,  and  he  was  a  bad  man — in 


SATURDAY'S   CHILD  195 

league  with  some  rival  factory,  in  fact.  Money  was 
lost  that  way,  contracts  broken " 

"Beast!"  said  Susan. 

"Wicked  enough,"  the  other  woman  conceded,  "but 
not  at  all  an  uncommon  thing,  Sue,  where  people  don't 
know  their  own  business.  So  we  borrowed  more 
money,  borrowed  enough  for  a  last,  desperate  fight, 
and  lost  it.  The  day  that  Jim  was  three  years  old, 
we  signed  the  business  away  to  the  other  people,  and 
Phil  took  a  position  under  them,  in  his  own  factory." 

"Oo-oo!"  Susan  winced. 

"Yes,  it  was  hard.  I  did  what  I  could  for  my 
poor  old  boy,  but  it  was  very  hard.  We  lived  very 
quietly;  I  had  begun  to  come  to  my  senses  then;  we 
had  but  one  maid.  But,  even  then,  Sue,  Philip  wasn't 
capable  of  holding  a  job  of  that  sort.  How  could  he 

manage  what  he  didn't  understand?  Poor  Phil " 

Mrs.  Carroll's  bright  eyes  brimmed  with  tears,  and 
her  mouth  quivered.  "However,  we  had  some  happy 
times  together  with  the  babies,"  she  said  cheerfully, 
"and  when  he  went  away  from  us,  four  years  later, 
with  his  better  salary  we  were  just  beginning  to  see 
our  way  clear.  So  that  left  me,  with  my  five,  Sue, 
without  a  cent  in  the  world.  An  old  cousin  of  my 
father  owned  this  house,  and  she  wrote  that  she  would 
give  us  all  a  home,  and  out  we  came, — Aunt  Betty's 
little  income  was  barely  enough  for  her,  so  I  sold 
books  and  taught  music  and  French,  and  finally  taught 
in  a  little  school,  and  put  up  preserves  for  people,  and 
packed  their  houses  up  for  the  winter " 

"How  did  you  do  it!" 

"Sue,  I  don't  know!  Anna  stood  by  me, — my  dar- 
ling!" The  last  two  words  came  in  a  passionate  under- 
tone. "But  of  course  there  were  bad  times.  Some- 
times we  lived  on  porridges  and  milk  for  days,  and 
many  a  night  Anna  and  Phil  and  I  have  gone  out,  after 
dark,  to  hunt  for  dead  branches  in  the  woods  for  my 
kitchen  stove!"  And  Mrs.  Carroll,  unexpectedly 
stirred  by  the  pitiful  memory,  broke  suddenly  into 


196  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

tears,  the  more  terrible  to  Susan  because  she  had  never 
seen  her  falter  before. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment.  Then  Mrs.  Carroll  dried 
her  eyes  and  said  cheerfully: 

"Well,  those  times  only  make  these  seem  brighter! 
Anna  is  well  started  now,  we've  paid  off  the  last  of 
the  mortgage,  Phil  is  more  of  a  comfort  than  he's 
ever  been — no  mother  could  ask  a  better  boy! — and 
Jo  is  beginning  to  take  a  real  interest  in  her  work. 
So  everything  is  coming  out  better  than  even  my 
prayers." 

"Still,"  smiled  Susan,  "lots  of  people  have  things 
comfortable,  without  such  a  terrible  struggle!" 

"And  lots  of  people  haven't  five  fine  children,  Sue, 
and  a  home  in  a  big  garden.  And  lots  of  mothers 
don't  have  the  joy  and  the  comfort  and  the  intimacy 
with  their  children  in  a  year  that  I  have  every  day. 
No,  I'm  only  too  happy  now,  Sue.  I  don't  ask  any- 
thing better  than  this.  And  if,  in  time,  they  go  to 
homes  of  their  own,  and  we  have  some  more  babies 
in  the  family — it's  all  living,  Sue,  it's  being  a  part  of 
the  world!" 

Mrs.  Carroll  carried  away  her  cakes  to  the  big 
stone  jar  in  the  pantry.  Susan,  pensively  nibbling  a 
peeled  slice  of  apple,  had  a  question  ready  for  her 
when  she  came  back. 

"But  suppose  you're  one  of  those  persons  who  get 
into  a  groove,  and  simply  can't  live  ?  I  want  to  work, 
and  do  heroic  things,  and  grow  to  be  something,  and 

how  can  I?  Unless "  her  color  rose,  but  her 

glance  did  not  fall,  "unless  somebody  marries  me,  of 
course." 

"Choose  what  you  want  to  do,  Sue,  and  do  it. 
That's  all." 

"Oh,  that  sounds  simple!  But  I  don't  want  to  do 
any  of  the  things  you  mean.  I  want  to  work  into  an 
interesting  life,  somehow.  I'll — I'll  never  marry," 
said  Susan. 

"You  won't?    Well;  of  course  that  makes  it  easier. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  197 

because  you  can  go  into  your  work  with  heart  and 
soul.  But  perhaps  you'll  change  your  mind,  Sue.  I 
hope  you  will,  just  as  I  hope  all  the  girls  will  marry. 
I'm  not  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Carroll,  suddenly  smiling, 
"but  what  the  very  quickest  way  for  a  woman  to  marry 
off  her  girls  is  to  put  them  into  business.  In  the  first 
place,  a  man  who  wants  them  has  to  be  in  earnest} 
and  in  the  second,  they  meet  the  very  men  whose 
interests  are  the  same  as  theirs.  So  don't  be  too  sure 
you  won't.  However,  I'm  not  laughing  at  you,  Sue. 
I  think  you  ought  to  seriously  select  some  work  for 
yourself,  unless  of  course  you  are  quite  satisfied  where 
you  are." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Susan.  "I'll  never  get  more  than 
forty  where  I  am.  And  more  than  that,  Thorny  heard 
that  Front  Office  is  going  to  be  closed  up  any  day." 

"But  you  could  get  another  position,  dear." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  You  see,  it's  a  special  sort 
of  bookkeeping.  It  wouldn't  help  any  of  us  much 
elsewhere." 

"True.    And  what  would  you  like  best  to  do,  Sue?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I  think  the  stage. 
Or  something  with  lots  of  traveling  in  it."  Susan 
laughed,  a  little  ashamed  of  her  vagueness. 

"Why  not  take  a  magazine  agency,  then?  There's 
a  lot  of  money " 

"Oh,  no!"  Susan  shuddered.     "You're  joking!" 

"Indeed  I'm  not.  You're  just  the  sort  of  person 
who  would  make  a  fine  living  selling  things.  The 
stage — I  don't  know.  But  if  you  really  mean  it,  I 
don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  get  a  little  start  some- 
where." 

"Aunt  Jo,  they  say  that  Broadway  in  New  York  is 
simply  lined  with  girls  trying " 

"New  York !  Well,  very  likely.  But  you  try  here. 
Go  to  the  manager  of  the  Alcazar,  recite  for  him " 

"He  wouldn't  let  me,"  Susan  asserted,  "and  be- 
sides, I  don't  really  know  anything." 

"Well,  learn  something.    Ask  him,  when  next  some 


198  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

manager  wants  to  make  up  a  little  road  company- 


'A  road  company!  Two  nights  in  Stockton,  two 
nights  in  Marysville — horrors!"  said  Susan. 

"But  that  wouldn't  be  for  long,  Sue.  Perhaps  two 
years.  Then  five  or  six  years  in  stock  somewhere 

"Aunt  Jo,  I'd  be  past  thirty!"  Susan  laughed  and 
colored  charmingly.  "I — honestly,  I  couldn't  give  up 
my  whole  life  for  ten  years  on  the  chance  of  making 
a  hit,"  she  confessed. 

"Well,  but  what  then,  Sue?" 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  I've  often  wanted  to  do," 
Susan  said,  after  a  thoughtful  interval. 

"Ah,  now  we're  coming  to  it!"  Mrs.  Carroll  said, 
with  satisfaction.  They  had  left  the  kitchen  now, 
and  were  sitting  on  the  top  step  of  the  side  porch, 
reveling  in  the  lovely  panorama  of  hillside  and  water- 
front, and  the  smooth  and  shining  stretch  of  bay  below 
them. 

"I've  often  thought  I'd  like  to  be  the  matron  of 
some  very  smart  school  for  girls,"  said  Susan,  "and 
live  either  in  or  near  some  big  Eastern  city,  and  take 
the  girls  to  concerts  and  lectures  and  walking  in  the 
parks,  and  have  a  lovely  room  full  of  books  and  pic- 
tures, where  they  would  come  and  tell  me  things,  and 
go  to  Europe  now  and  then  for  a  vacation!" 

"That  would  be  a  lovely  life,  Sue.  Why  not  work 
for  that?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know  how.  I  don't  know  of  any 
such  school." 

"Well,  now  let  us  suppose  the  head  of  such  a  school 
wants  a  matron,"  Mrs.  Carroll  said,  "she  naturally 
looks  for  a  lady  and  a  linguist,  and  a  person  of  expe- 
rience  " 

"There  you  are!  I've  had  no  experience!"  Susan 
said,  instantly  depressed.  "I  could  rub  up  on  French 
and  German,  and  read  up  the  treatment  for  toothache 
and  burns — out  experience!" 

"But  see  how  things  work  together,  Sue!"  Mrs. 
Carroll  exclaimed,  with  a  suddenly  bright  face. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  199 

"Here's  Miss  Berrat,  who  has  the  little  school  over 
here,  simply  crazy  to  find  someone  to  help  her  out. 
She  has  eight — or  nine,  I  forget — day  scholars,  and 
four  or  five  boarders.  And  such  a  dear  little  cottage ! 
Miss  Pitcher  is  leaving  her,  to  go  to  Miss  North's 
school  in  Berkeley,  and  she  wants  someone  at  once!" 

"But,  Aunt  Jo,  what  does  she  pay?" 

"Let  me  see "  Mrs.  Carroll  wrinkled  a  thought- 
ful brow.  "Not  much,  I  know.  You  live  at  the 
school,  of  course.  Five  or  ten  dollars  a  month,  I 
think." 

"But  I  couldn't  live  on  that!"  Susan  exclaimed. 

"You'd  be  near  us,  Sue,  for  one  thing.  And  you'd 
have  a  nice  bright  sunny  room.  And  Miss  Berrat 
would  help  you  with  your  French  and  German.  It 
would  be  a  good  beginning." 

"But  I  simply  couldn't "  Susan  stopped  short. 

"Would  you  advise  it,  Aunt  Jo  ?"  she  asked  simply. 

Mrs.  Carroll  studied  the  bright  face  soberly  for  a 
moment. 

"Yes,  I'd  advise  it,  Sue,"  she  said  then  gravely. 
"I  don't  think  that  the  atmosphere  where  you  are  is 
the  best  in  the  world  for  you  just  now.  It  would  be  a 
fine  change.  It  would  be  good  for  those  worries  of 
yours." 

"Then  I'll  do  it!"  Susan  said  suddenly,  the  unex- 
plained tears  springing  to  her  eyes. 

"I  think  I  would.  I'll  go  and  see  Miss  Berrat  next 
week,"  Mrs.  Carroll  said.  "There's  the  boat  making 
the  slip,  Sue,"  she  added,  "let's  get  the  table  set  out 
here  on  the  porch  while  they're  climbing  the  hill!" 

Up  the  hill  came  Philip  and  Josephine,  just  home 
from  the  city,  escorted  by  Betsey  and  Jim  who  had  met 
them  at  the  boat.  Susan  received  a  strangling  welcome 
from  Betts,  and  Josephine,  who  looked  a  little  pale 
and  tired  after  this  first  enervating,  warm  spring  day, 
really  brightened  perceptibly  when  she  went  upstairs 
with  Susan  to  slip  into  a  dress  that  was  comfortably 
low-necked  and  short-sleeved. 


200  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Presently  they  all  gathered  on  the  porch  for  dinner, 
with  the  sweet  twilighted  garden  just  below  them  and 
anchor  lights  beginning  to  prick,  one  by  one,  through 
the  soft  dusky  gloom  of  the  bay. 

"Well,  'mid  pleasures  and  palaces "  Philip 

smiled  at  his  mother. 

"Charades  to-night!"  shrilled  Betts,  from  the 
kitchen  where  she  was  drying  lettuce. 

"Oh,  but  a  walk  first!"  Susan  protested.  For  their 
aimless  strolls  through  the  dark,  flower-scented  lanes 
were  a  delight  to  her. 

"And  Billy's  coming  over  to-morrow  to  walk  to 
Gioli's,"  Josephine  added  contentedly. 

That  evening  and  the  next  day  Susan  always  remem- 
bered as  terminating  a  certain  phase  of  her  life,  al- 
though for  perhaps  a  week  the  days  went  on  just  as 
usual.  But  one  morning  she  found  confusion  reigning, 
when  she  arrived  at  Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter's. 
Front  Office  was  to  be  immediately  abolished,  its  work 
was  over,  its  staff  already  dispersing. 

Workmen,  when  she  arrived,  were  moving  out  cases 
and  chairs,  and  Mr.  Brauer,  eagerly  falling  upon  her, 
begged  her  to  clean  out  her  desk,  and  to  help  him 
assort  the  papers  in  some  of  the  other  desks  and 
cabinets.  Susan,  filled  with  pleasant  excitement,  pinned 
on  her  paper  cuffs,  and  put  her  heart  and  soul  into 
the  work.  No  bills  this  morning!  The  office-boy  did 
not  even  bring  them  up. 

"Now,  here's  a  soap  order  that  must  have  been 
specially  priced,"  said  Susan,  at  her  own  desk,  "I 
couldn't  make  anything  of  it  yesterday " 

"Let  it  go — let  it  go!"  Mr.  Brauer  said.  "It  iss  all 
ofer!" 

As  the  other  girls  came  in  they  were  pressed  into 
service,  papers  and  papers  and  papers,  the  drift  of 
years,  were  tossed  out  of  drawers  and  cubby-holes. 
Much  excited  laughter  and  chatter  went  on.  Probably 
not  one  girl  among  them  felt  anything  but  pleasure  and 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  201 

relief  at  the  unexpected  holiday,  and  a  sense  of  utter 
confidence  in  the  future. 

Mr.  Philip,  fussily  entering  the  disordered  room  at 
ten  o'clock,  announced  his  regret  at  the  suddenness  of 
the  change;  the  young  ladies  would  be  paid  their  sal- 
aries for  the  uncompleted  month — a  murmur  of  satis- 
faction arose — and,  in  short,  the  firm  hoped  that  their 
association  had  been  as  pleasant  to  them  as  it  had  been 
to  his  partners  and  himself. 

"They  had  a  directors'  meeting  on  Saturday," 
Thorny  said,  later,  "and  if  you  ask  me  my  frank 
opinion,  I  think  Henry  Brauer  is  at  the  bottom  of  all 
this.  What  do  you  know  about  his  having  been  at  that 
meeting  on  Saturday,  and  his  going  to  have  the  office 
right  next  to  J.  G.'s — isn't  that  the  extension  of  the 
limit?  He's  as  good  as  in  the  firm  now." 

"I've  always  said  that  he  knew  something  that  made 
it  very  well  worth  while  for  this  firm  to  keep  his 
mouth  shut,"  said  Miss  Cashell,  darkly. 

"I'll  bet  you  there's  something  in  that,"  Miss  Cottle 
agreed. 

"H.  B.  &  H.  is  losing  money  hand  over  fist," 
Thorny  stated,  gloomily,  with  that  intimate  knowledge 
of  an  employer's  affairs  always  displayed  by  an  obscure 
clerk. 

"Brauer  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  go  into  the 
big  office,  but  I  don't  believe  I  could  do  the  work," 
Susan  said. 

"Yes;  I'm  going  into  the  main  office,  too,"  Thorny 
stated.  "Don't  you  be  afraid,  Susan.  It's  as  easy  as 
pie." 

"Mr.  Brauer  said  I  could  try  it,"  Miss  Sherman 
shyly  contributed.  But  no  other  girl  had  been  thus 
complimented.  Miss  Kelly  and  Miss  Garvey,  both 
engaged  to  be  married  now,  Miss  Kelly  to  Miss  Gar- 
vey's  brother,  Miss  Garvey  to  Miss  Kelly's  cousin, 
were  rather  congratulating  themselves  upon  the  turn 
of  events;  the  other  girls  speculated  as  to  the  wisest 
step  to  take  next,  some  talking  vaguely  of  postoffice 


202  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

or  hospital  work;  Miss  Cashell,  as  Miss  Thornton 
later  said  to  Susan,  hopelessly  proving  herself  no  lady 
by  announcing  that  she  could  get  better  money  as  a 
coat  model,  and  meant  to  get  into  that  line  of  work 
if  she  could. 

"Are  we  going  to  have  lunch  to-day?"  somebody 
asked.  Miss  Thornton  thoughtfully  drew  a  piece  of 
paper  toward  her,  and  wet  her  pencil  in  her  mouth. 

"Best  thing  we  can  do,  I  guess,"  she  said. 

"Let's  put  ten  cents  each  in,"  Susan  suggested,  "and 
make  it  a  real  party." 

Thorny  accordingly  expanded  her  list  to  include 
sausages  and  a  pie,  cheese  and  rolls,  besides  the  usual 
tea  and  stewed  tomatoes.  The  girls  ate  the  little  meal 
with  their  hats  and  wraps  on,  a  sense  of  change  filled 
the  air,  and  they  were  all  a  little  pensive,  even  with 
an  unexpected  half-holiday  before  them. 

Then  came  good-bys.  The  girls  separated  with 
many  affectionate  promises.  All  but  the  selected  three 
were  not  to  return.  Susan  and  Miss  Sherman  and 
Thorny  would  come  back  to  find  their  desks  waiting 
for  them  in  the  main  office  next  day. 

Susan  walked  thoughtfully  uptown,  and  when  she 
got  home,  wrote  a  formal  application  for  the  position 
open  in  her  school  to  little  Miss  Berrat  in  Sausalito. 

It  was  a  delightful,  sunshiny  afternoon.  Mary  Lou, 
Mrs.  Lancaster  and  Virginia  were  making  a  mournful 
trip  to  the  great  institution  for  the  blind  in  Berkeley, 
where  Virginia's  physician  wanted  to  place  her  for  spe- 
cial watching  and  treatment.  Susan  found  two  or  three 
empty  hours  on  her  hands,  and  started  out  for  a  round 
of  calls. 

She  called  on  her  aunt's  old  friends,  the  Langs,  and 
upon  the  bony,  cold  Throckmorton  sisters,  rich,  nerv- 
ous, maiden  ladies,  shivering  themselves  slowly  to 
death  in  their  barn  of  a  house,  and  finally,  and  unex- 
pectedly, upon  Mrs.  Baxter. 

Susan  had  planned  a  call  on  Georgie,  to  finish  the 
afternoon,  for  her  cousin,  slowJv  dragging  her  way 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  203 

up  the  last  of  the  long  road  that  ends  in  motherhood, 
was  really  in  need  of  cheering  society. 

But  the  Throckmorton  house  chanced  to  be  directly 
opposite  the  old  Baxter  mansion,  and  Susan,  seeing 
Peter's  home,  suddenly  decided  to  spend  a  few  mo- 
ments with  the  old  lady. 

After  all,  why  should  she  not  call?  She  had  had  no 
open  break  with  Peter,  and  on  every  occasion  his  aunt 
had  begged  her  to  take  pity  on  an  old  woman's  lone- 
liness. Susan  was  always  longing,  in  her  secret  heart, 
for  that  accident  that  should  reopen  the  old  friend- 
ship; knowing  Peter,  she  knew  that  the  merest  chance 
would  suddenly  bring  him  to  her  side  again;  his  whole 
life  was  spent  in  following  the  inclination  of  the  mo- 
ment. And  to-day,  in  her  pretty  new  hat  and  spring 
suit,  she  was  looking  her  best. 

Peter  would  not  be  at  home,  of  course.  But  his 
aunt  would  tell  him  that  that  pretty,  happy  Miss  Brown 
was  here,  and  that  she  was  going  to  leave  Hunter, 
Baxter  &  Hunter's  for  something  not  specified.  And 
then  Peter,  realizing  that  Susan  had  entirely  risen 
above  any  foolish  old  memory 

Susan  crossed  the  street  and  rang  the  bell.  When 
the  butler  told  her,  with  an  impassive  face,  that  he 
would  find  out  if  Mrs.  Baxter  were  in,  Susan  hoped,  in 
a  panic,  that  she  was  not.  The  big,  gloomy,  handsome 
hall  rather  awed  her.  She  watched  Burns's  retreating 
back  fearfully,  hoping  that  Mrs.  Baxter  really  was  out, 
or  that  Burns  would  be  instructed  to  say  so. 

But  he  came  back,  expressionless,  placid,  noiseless 
of  step,  to  say  in  a  hushed,  confidential  tone  that  Mrs. 
Baxter  would  be  down  in  a  moment.  He  lighted  the 
reception  room  brilliantly  for  Susan,  and  retired  decor- 
ously. Susan  sat  nervously  on  the  edge  of  a  chair. 
Suddenly  her  call  seemed  a  very  bold  and  intrusive 
thing  to  do,  even  an  indelicate  thing,  everything  con- 
sidered. Suppose  Peter  should  come  in ;  what  could  he 
think  but  that  she  was  clinging  to  the  association  with 
which  he  had  so  clearly  indicated  that  he  was  done? 


204  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

What  if  she  got  up  and  went  silently,  swiftly  out? 
Burns  was  not  in  sight,  the  great  hall  was  empty.  She 
had  really  nothing  to  say  to  Mrs.  Baxter,  and  she  could 
assume  that  she  had  misunderstood  his  message  if  the 
butler  followed  her 

Mrs.  Baxter,  a  little  figure  in  rustling  silk,  came 
quickly  down  the  stairway.  Susan  met  her  in  the 
doorway  of  the  reception  room,  with  a  smile. 

"How  do  you  do,  how  do  you  do?"  Mrs.  Baxter 
said  nervously.  She  did  not  sit  down,  but  stood  close 
to  Susan,  peering  up  at  her  shortsightedly,  and  crum- 
pling the  card  she  held  in  her  hand.  "It's  about  the 
office,  isn't  it?"  she  said  quickly.  "Yes,  I  see.  Mr. 
Baxter  told  me  that  it  was  to  be  closed.  I'm  sorry, 
but  I  never  interfere  in  those  things, — never.  I  really 
don't  know  anything  about  it!  I'm  sorry.  But  it 
would  hardly  be  my  place  to  interfere  in  business,  when 
I  don't  know  anything  about  it,  would  it?  Mr.  Baxter 
always  prides  himself  on  the  fact  that  I  don't  inter- 
fere. So  I  don't  really  see  what  I  could  do." 

A  wave  of  some  supreme  emotion,  not  all  anger, 
nor  all  contempt,  nor  all  shame,  but  a  composite  of 
the  three,  rose  in  Susan's  heart.  She  had  not  come 
to  ask  a  favor  of  this  more  fortunate  woman,  but — 
the  thought  flashed  through  her  mind — suppose  she 
had?  She  looked  down  at  the  little  silk-dressed  figure, 
the  blinking  eyes,  the  veiny  little  hand,  and  the  small 
mouth,  that,  after  sixty  years,  was  composed  of  noth- 
ing but  conservative  and  close-shut  lines.  Pity  won 
the  day  over  her  hurt  girlish  feeling  and  the  pride  that 
claimed  vindication,  and  Susan  smiled  kindly. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  come  about  Front  Office,  Mrs.  Baxter! 
I  just  happened  to  be  in  the  neighborhood " 

Two  burning  spots  came  into  the  older  woman's 
face,  not  of  shame,  but  of  anger  that  she  had  mis- 
understood, had  placed  herself  for  an  instant  at  a 
disadvantage. 

"Oh,"  she  said  vaguely.  "Won't  you  sit  down? 
Peter "  she  paused. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  205 

"Peter  is  in  Santa  Barbara,  isn't  he?"  asked  Susan, 
who  knew  he  was  not. 

"I  declare  I  don't  know  where  he  is  half  the  time," 
Mrs.  Baxter  said,  with  her  little,  cracked  laugh.  They 
both  sat  down.  "He  has  such  a  good  time!"  pursued 
his  aunt,  complacently. 

"Doesn't  he?"  Susan  said  pleasantly. 

"Only  I  tell  the  girls  they  mustn't  take  Peter  too 
seriously,"  cackled  the  sweet,  old  voice.  "Dreadful 
boy!" 

"I  think  they  understand  him."  Susan  looked  at 
her  hostess  solicitously.  "You  look  well,"  she  said 
resolutely.  "No  more  neuritis,  Mrs.  Baxter?" 

Mrs.  Baxter  was  instantly  diverted.  She  told  Susan 
of  her  new  treatment,  her  new  doctor,  the  devotion  of 
her  old  maid;  Emma,  the  servant  of  her  early  married 
life,  was  her  close  companion  now,  and  although  Mrs. 
Baxter  always  thought  of  her  as  a  servant,  Emma  was 
really  the  one  intimate  friend  she  had. 

Susan  remained  a  brief  quarter  of  an  hour,  chatting 
easily,  but  burning  with  inward  shame.  Never,  never, 
never  in  her  life  would  she  pay  another  call  like  this 
one !  Tea  was  not  suggested,  and  when  the  girl  said 
good-by,  Mrs.  Baxter  did  not  leave  the  reception 
room.  But  just  as  Burns  opened  the  street-door  for 
her  Susan  saw  a  beautiful  little  coupe  stop  at  the  curb, 
and  Miss  Ella  Saunders,  beautifully  gowned,  got  out 
of  it  and  came  up  the  steps  with  a  slowness  that  be- 
came her  enormous  size. 

"Hello,  Susan  Brown!"  said  Miss  Saunders,  impris- 
oning Susan's  hand  between  two  snowy  gloves. 
"Where've  you  been?" 

"Where've  you  been?"  Susan  laughed.  "Italy  and 
Russia  and  Holland!" 

"Don't  be  an  utter  little  hypocrite,  child,  and  try  to 
make  talk  with  a  woman  of  my  years !  I've  been  home 
two  weeks,  anyway." 

"Emily  home?" 

Miss    Saunders   nodded   slowly,    bit   her   lip,    and 


206  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

stared  at  Susan  in  a  rather  mystifying  and  very  pro- 
nounced way. 

"Emily  is  home,  indeed,"  she  said  absently.  Then 
abruptly  she  added:  "Can  you  lunch  with  me  to-mor- 
row— no,  Wednesday — at  the  Town  and  Country, 
infant?" 

"Why,  I'd  love  to!"  Susan  answered,  dimpling. 

"Well;  at  one?  Then  we  can  talk.  Tell  me,"  Miss 
Saunders  lowered  her  voice,  "is  Mrs.  Baxter  in?  Oh, 
damn!"  she  added  cheerfully,  as  Susan  nodded.  Susan 
glanced  back,  before  the  door  closed,  and  saw  her  meet 
the  old  lady  in  the  hall  and  give  her  an  impulsive  kiss. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  little  Town  and  Country  Club,  occupying  two 
charmingly-furnished,  crowded  floors  of  what  had  once 
been  a  small  apartment  house  on  Post  Street,  next 
door  to  the  old  library,  was  a  small  but  remarkable 
institution,  whose  members  were  the  wealthiest  and 
most  prominent  women  of  the  fashionable  colonies  of 
Burlingame  and  San  Mateo,  Ross  Valley  and  San 
Rafael.  Presumably  only  the  simplest  and  least  for- 
mal of  associations,  it  was  really  the  most  important  of 
all  the  city's  social  institutions,  and  no  woman  was 
many  weeks  in  San  Francisco  society  without  realizing 
that  the  various  country  clubs,  and  the  Junior  Cotillions 
were  as  dust  and  ashes,  and  that  her  chances  of  achiev- 
ing a  card  to  the  Browning  dances  were  very  slim  if 
she  could  not  somehow  push  her  name  at  least  as  far 
as  the  waiting  list  of  the  Town  and  Country  Club. 

The  members  pretended,  to  a  woman,  to  be  entirely 
unconscious  of  their  social  altitude.  They  couldn't 
understand  how  such  ideas  ever  got  about,  it  was  "deli- 
cious"; it  was  "too  absurd!"  Why,  the  club  was  just 
the  quietest  place  in  the  world,  a  place  where  a  woman 
could  run  in  to  brush  her  hair  and  wash  her  hands, 
and  change  her  library  book,  and  have  a  cup  of  tea. 
A  few  of  them  had  formed  it  years  ago,  just  half  a 
dozen  of  them,  at  a  luncheon;  it  was  like  a  little  fam- 
ily circle,  one  knew  everybody  there,  and  one  felt  at 
home  there.  But,  as  for  being  exclusive  and  conserva- 
tive, that  was  all  nonsense!  And  besides,  what  did 
other  women  see  in  it  to  make  them  want  to  come  in ! 
Let  them  form  another  club,  exactly  like  it,  wouldn't 
that  be  the  wiser  thing? 

207 


208  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Other  women,  thus  advised  and  reassured,  smiled, 
instead  of  gnashing  their  teeth,  and  said  gallantly  that 
after  all  they  themselves  were  too  busy  to  join  any 
club  just  now,  merely  happened  to  speak  of  the  Town 
and  Country.  And  after  that  they  said  hateful  and 
lofty  and  insulting  things  about  the  club  whenever  they 
found  listeners. 

But  the  Town  and  Country  Club  flourished  on  un- 
concernedly, buzzing  six  days  a  week  with  well-dressed 
women,  echoing  to  Christian  names  and  intimate  chat- 
ter, sheltering  the  smartest  of  pigskin  suitcases  and 
gold-headed  umbrellas  and  rustling  raincoats  in  its  tiny 
closets,  resisting  the  constant  demand  of  the  younger 
element  for  modern  club  conveniences  and  more  room. 

No;  the  old  members  clung  to  its  very  incon- 
veniences, to  the  gas-lights  over  the  dressing-tables,  and 
the  narrow  halls,  and  the  view  of  ugly  roofs  and  build- 
ings from  its  back  windows.  They  liked  to  see  the 
notices  written  in  the  secretary's  angular  hand  and 
pinned  on  the  library  door  with  a  white-headed  pin. 
The  catalogue  numbers  of  books  were  written  by  hand, 
too — the  ink  blurred  into  the  shiny  linen  bands.  At 
tea-time  a  little  maid  quite  openly  cut  and  buttered 
bread  in  a  corner  of  the  dining-room;  it  was  permis- 
sible to  call  gaily,  "More  bread  here,  Rosie !  I'm 
afraid  we're  a  very  hungry  crowd  to-day!" 

Susan  enormously  enjoyed  the  club;  she  had  been 
there  more  than  once  with  Miss  Saunders,  and  found 
her  way  without  trouble  to-day  to  a  big  chair  in  a 
window  arch,  where  she  could  enjoy  the  passing  show 
without  being  herself  conspicuous.  A  constant  little 
stream  of  women  came  and  went,  handsome,  awkward 
school-girls,  in  town  for  the  dentist  or  to  be  fitted  to 
shoes,  or  for  the  matinee;  debutantes,  in  their  exquisite 
linens  and  summer  silks,  all  joyous  chatter  and  laugh- 
ter; and  plainly-gowned,  well-groomed,  middle-aged 
women,  escorting  or  chaperoning,  and  pausing  here  for 
greetings  and  the  interchange  of  news. 

Miss  Saunders,  magnificent,  handsome,  wonderfully 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  209 

i 

gowned,  was  surrounded  by  friends  the  moment  she 
came  majestically  upstairs.  Susan  thought  her  very 
attractive,  with  her  ready  flow  of  conversation,  her 
familiar,  big-sisterly  attitude  with  the  young  girls,  her 
positiveness  when  there  was  the  slightest  excuse  for 
her  advice  or  opinions  being  expressed.  She  had  a 
rich,  full  voice,  and  a  drawling  speech.  She  had  to 
decline  ten  pressing  invitations  in  as  many  minutes. 

"Ella,  why  can't  you  come  home  with  me  this  after- 
noon?— I'm  not  speaking  to  you,  Ella  Saunders,  you've 
not  been  near  us  since  you  got  back! — Mama's  so 
anxious  to  see  you,  Miss  Ella ! — Listen,  Ella,  you've 
got  to  go  with  us  to  Tahoe;  Perry  will  have  a  fit  if 
you  don't!" 

"Mama's  not  well,  and  the  kid  is  just  home,"  Miss 
Saunders  told  them  all  good-naturedly,  in  excuse.  She 
carried  Susan  off  to  the  lunch-room,  announcing  her- 
self to  be  starving,  and  ordered  a  lavish  luncheon. 
Ella  Saunders  really  liked  this  pretty,  jolly,  little  book- 
keeper from  Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter's.  Susan 
amused  her,  and  she  liked  still  better  the  evidence  that 
she  amused  Susan.  Her  indifferent,  not  to  say  irrev- 
erent, air  toward  the  sacred  traditions  and  institutions 
of  her  class  made  Susan  want  to  laugh  and  gasp  at 
once. 

"But  this  is  a  business  matter,"  said  Miss  Saunders, 
when  they  had  reached  the  salad,  "and  here  we  are 
talking!  Mama  and  Baby  and  I  have  talked  this 
thing  all  over,  Susan,"  she  added  casually,  "and  we 
want  to  know  what  you'd  think  of  coming  to  live  with 
us?" 

Susan  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  as  one  astounded,  not 
a  muscle  of  her  face  moved.  She  never  was  quite 
natural  with  Ella;  above  the  sudden  rush  of  elation 
and  excitement  came  the  quick  intuition  that  Ella  would 
like  a  sensational  reception  of  her  offer.  Her  look  ex- 
pressed the  stunned  amazement  of  one  who  cannot 
credit  her  ears.  Ella's  laugh  showed  an  amused 
pleasure. 


910  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Don't  look  so  aghast,  child.  You  don't  have  to  do 
it  I"  she  said. 

Again  Susan  did  the  dramatic  and  acceptable  thing, 
typical  of  what  she  must  give  the  Saunders  throughout 
their  relationship.  Instead  of  the  natural  "What  on 
earth  are  you  talking  about?"  she  said  slowly,  dazedly, 
her  bewildered  eyes  on  Ella's  face : 

"You're  joking " 

"Joking!  You'll  find  the  Saunders  family  no  joke, 
I  can  promise  you  that!"  Ella  said,  humorously.  And 
again  Susan  laughed. 

"No,  but  you  see  Emily's  come  home  from  Fowler's 
a  perfect  nervous  wreck,"  explained  Miss  Ella,  "and 
she  can't  be  left  alone  for  awhile, — partly  because  her 
heart's  not  good,  partly  because  she  gets  blue,  and 
partly  because,  if  she  hasn't  anyone  to  drive  and  walk 
and  play  tennis  with,  and  so  on,  she  simply  mopes 
from  morning  until  night.  She  hates  Mama's  nurse; 
Mama  needs  Miss  Baker  herself  anyway,  and  we've 
been  wondering  and  wondering  how  we  could  get  hold 
of  the  right  person  to  fill  the  bill.  You'd  have  a  pretty 
easy  time  in  one  way,  of  course,  and  do  everything 
the  Kid  does,  and  I'll  stand  right  behind  you.  But 
don't  think  it's  any  snap!" 

"Snap !"  echoed  Susan,  starry-eyed,  crimson-cheeked. 
" But  you  don't  mean  that  you  want  me?" 

"I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her;  she  turned  quite 
pale,"  Miss  Saunders  told  her  mother  and  sister  later. 
"Really,  she  was  overcome.  She  said  she'd  speak  to 
her  aunt  to-night;  I  don't  imagine  there'll  be  any  trou- 
ble. She's  a  nice  child.  I  don't  see  the  use  of  delay, 
so  I  said  Monday." 

"You  were  a  sweet  to  think  of  it,"  Emily  said, 
gratefully,  from  the  downy  wide  couch  where  she  was 
spending  the  evening. 

"Not  at  all,  Kid,"  Ella  answered  politely.  She 
yawned,  and  stared  at  the  alabaster  globe  of  the  lamp 
above  Emily's  head.  A  silence  fell.  The  two  sisters 
never  had  much  to  talk  about,  and  Mrs.  Saunders, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

dutifully  sitting  with  the  invalid,  was  heavy  from 
dinner,  and  nearly  asleep.  Ella  yawned  again. 

"Want  some  chocolates?'*  she  finally  asked. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Ella!" 

"I'll  send  Fannie  in  with  'em!"  Miss  Ella  stood  up, 
bent  her  head  to  study  at  close  range  an  engraving  on 
the  wall,  loitered  off  to  her  own  room.  She  was  rarely 
at  home  in  the  evening  and  did  not  know  quite  what 
to  do  with  herself. 

Susan,  meanwhile,  walked  upon  air.  She  tasted  com- 
plete happiness  for  almost  the  first  time  in  her  life; 
awakened  in  the  morning  to  blissful  reality,  instead  of 
the  old  dreary  round,  and  went  to  sleep  at  night  smil- 
ing at  her  own  happy  thoughts.  It  was  all  like  a 
pleasant  dream! 

She  resigned  from  her  new  position  at  Hunter,  Bax- 
ter &  Hunter's  exactly  as  she  resigned  in  imagination 
a  hundred  times.  No  more  drudgery  over  bills,  no 
more  mornings  spent  in  icy,  wet  shoes,  and  afternoons 
heavy  with  headache.  Susan  was  almost  too  excited  to 
thank  Mr.  Brauer  for  his  compliments  and  regrets. 

Parting  with  Thorny  was  harder;  Susan  and  she 
had  been  through  many  a  hard  hour  together,  had 
shared  a  thousand  likes  and  dislikes,  had  loved  and 
quarreled  and  been  reconciled. 

"You're  doing  an  awfully  foolish  thing,  Susan. 
You'll  wish  you  were  back  here  inside  of  a  month," 
Thorny  prophesied  when  the  last  moment  came.  "Aw, 
don't  you  do  it,  Susan!"  she  pleaded,  with  a  little  real 
emotion.  "Come  on  into  Main  Office,  and  sit  next  to 
me.  We'll  have  loads  of  sport." 

"Oh,  I've  promised!"  Susan  held  out  her  hand. 
"Don't  forget  me!"  she  said,  trying  to  laugh.  Miss 
Thornton's  handsome  eyes  glistened  with  tears.  With 
a  sudden  little  impulse  they  kissed  each  other  for  the 
first  time. 

Then  Susan,  a  full  hour  before  closing,  went  down 
from  the  lunch-room,  and  past  all  the  familiar  offices; 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

/ 

the  sadness  of  change  tugging  at  her  heart-strings.  She 
had  been  here  a  long  time,  she  had  smelled  this  same 
odor  of  scorching  rubber,  and  oils  and  powders 
through  so  many  slow  afternoons,  in  gay  moods  and 
sad,  in  moods  of  rebellion  and  distaste.  She  left  a 
part  of  her  girlhood  here.  The  cashier,  to  whom  she 
went  for  her  check,  was  all  kindly  interest,  and  the 
young  clerks  and  salesmen  stopped  to  offer  her  their 
good  wishes.  Susan  passed  the  time-clock  without 
punching  her  number  for  the  first  time  in  three  years, 
and  out  into  the  sunny,  unfamiliar  emptiness  of  the 
streets. 

At  the  corner  her  heart  suddenly  failed  her.  She 
felt  as  if  she  could  not  really  go  away  from  these 
familiar  places  and  people.  The  warehouses  and 
wholesale  houses,  the  wholesale  liquor  house  with  a 
live  eagle  magnificently  caged  in  one  window,  the  big 
stove  establishment,  with  its  window  full  of  ranges  in 
shining  steel  and  nickel-plate ;  these  had  been  her  world 
for  so  long! 

But  she  kept  on  her  way  uptown,  and  by  the  time 
she  reached  the  old  library,  where  Mary  Lou,  very 
handsome  in  her  well-brushed  suit  and  dotted  veil, 
with  white  gloves  still  odorous  of  benzine,  was  waiting, 
she  was  almost  sure  that  she  was  not  making  a  mistake. 

Mary  Lou  was  a  famous  shopper,  capable  of  ex- 
hausting any  saleswoman  for  a  ten-cent  purchase,  and 
proportionately  effective  when,  as  to-day,  a  really  con- 
siderable sum  was  to  be  spent.  She  regretfully  would 
decline  a  dozen  varieties  in  handkerchiefs  or  ribbons, 
saying  with  pleasant  plaintiveness  to  the  saleswoman: 
"Perhaps  I  am  hard  to  please.  My  mother  is  an  old 
Southern  lady — the  Ralstons,  you  know? — and  her 
linen  is,  of  course,  like  nothing  one  can  get  nowadays ! 
No ;  I  wouldn't  care  to  show  my  mother  this. 

"My  cousin,  of  course,  only  wants  this  for  a  little 
hack  hat,"  she  added  to  Susan's  modest  suggestion  of 
price  to  the  milliner,  and  in  the  White  House  she 
consented  to  Susan's  selections  with  a  consoling  re- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  213 

minder,  "It  isn't  as  if  you  didn't  have  your  lovely 
French  underwear  at  home,  Sue !  These  will  do  very 
nicely  for  your  rough  camping  trip !" 

Compared  to  Mary  Lou,  Susan  was  a  very  poor 
shopper.  She  was  always  anxious  to  please  the  sales- 
woman, to  buy  after  a  certain  amount  of  looking  had 
been  done,  for  no  other  reason  than  that  she  had 
caused  most  of  the  stock  to  be  displayed. 

"I  like  this,  Mary  Lou,"  Susan  would  murmur  nerv- 
ously. And,  as  the  pompadoured  saleswoman  turned 
to  take  down  still  another  heap  of  petticoats,  Susan 
would  repeat  noiselessly,  with  an  urgent  nod,  "This 
will  do!" 

"Wait,  now,  dear,"  Mary  Lou  would  return,  un- 
perturbed, arresting  Susan's  hand  with  a  white,  well- 
filled  glove.  "Wait,  dear.  If  we  can't  get  it  here  we 
can  get  it  somewhere  else.  Yes,  let  me  see  those  you 
have  there " 

"Thank  you,  just  the  same,"  Susan  always  murmured 
uncomfortably,  averting  her  eyes  from  the  saleswoman, 
as  they  went  away.  But  the  saleswoman,  busily  rear- 
ranging her  stock,  rarely  responded. 

To-day  they  bought,  besides  the  fascinating  white 
things,  some  tan  shoes,  and  a  rough  straw  hat  covered 
with  roses,  and  two  linen  skirts,  and  three  linen 
blouses,  and  a  little  dress  of  dotted  lavender  lawn. 
Everything  was  of  the  simplest,  but  Susan  had  never 
had  so  many  new  things  in  the  course  of  her  life  be- 
fore, and  was  elated  beyond  words  as  one  purchase 
was  made  after  another. 

She  carried  home  nearly  ten  dollars,  planning  to 
keep  it  until  the  first  month's  salary  should  be  paid, 
but  Auntie  was  found,  upon  their  return  in  the  very 
act  of  dissuading  the  dark  powers  known  as  the  "sew- 
ing-machine men"  from  removing  that  convenience, 
and  Susan,  only  too  thankful  to  be  in  time,  gladly  let 
seven  dollars  fall  into  the  oily  palm  of  the  carrier  in 
charge. 

"Mary  Lou,"  said  she,  over  her  fascinating  pack- 


214.  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

ages,  just  before  dinner,  "here's  a  funny  thing!  If  I 
had  gone  bad,  you  know,  so  that  I  could  keep  buying 
nice,  pretty,  simple  things  like  this,  as  fast  as  I  needed 
them,  I'd  feel  better — I  mean  truly  cleaner  and  more 
moral — than  when  I  was  good!" 

"Susan!  Why,  Susan!"  Her  cousin  turned  a 
shocked  face  from  the  window  where  she  was  care- 
fully pasting  newly-washed  handkerchiefs,  to  dry  in 
the  night.  "Do  you  remember  who  you  are,  dear,  and 
don't  say  dreadful  things  like  that!" 

In  the  next  few  days  Susan  pressed  her  one  suit, 
laundered  a  score  of  little  ruffles  and  collars,  cleaned 
her  gloves,  sewed  on  buttons  and  strings  generally,  and 
washed  her  hair.  Late  on  Sunday  came  the  joyful 
necessity  of  packing.  Mary  Lou  folded  and  refolded 
patiently,  Georgie  came  in  with  a  little  hand-embroid- 
ered handkerchief-case  for  Susan's  bureau,  Susan  her- 
self rushed  about  like  a  mad-woman,  doing  almost 
nothing. 

"You'll  be  back  inside  the  month,"  said  Billy  that 
evening,  looking  up  from  Carlyle's  "Revolution,"  to 
where  Susan  and  Mary  Lou  were  busy  with  last 
stitches,  at  the  other  side  of  the  dining-room  table. 
"You  can't  live  with  the  rotten  rich  any  more  than  I 
could!" 

"Billy,  you  don't  know  how  awfully  conceited  you 
sound  when  you  say  a  thing  like  that!" 

"Conceited?  Oh,  all  right!"  Mr.  Oliver  accom- 
panied the  words  with  a  sound  only  to  be  described  as 
a  snort,  and  returned,  offended,  to  his  book. 

"Conceited,  well,  maybe  I  am,"  he  resumed  with 
deadly  calm,  a  moment  later.  "But  there's  no  con- 
ceit in  my  saying  that  people  like  the  Saunders  can't 
buffalo  me!"  • 

"You  may  not  see  it,  but  there  is!"  persisted  Susan. 

"You  give  me  a  pain,  Sue !  Do  you  honestly  think 
they  are  any  better  than  you  are?" 

"Of  course  they're  not  better,"  Susan  said,  heatedly; 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  215 

"If  it  comes  right  down  to  morals  and  the  Command- 
ments! But  if  I  prefer  to  spend  my  life  among  peo- 
ple who  have  had  several  generations  of  culture  and 
refinement  and  travel  and  education  behind  them,  it's 
my  own  affair !  I  like  nice  people,  and  rich  people  are 
more  refined  than  poor,  and  nobody  denies  it!  I  may 
feel  sorry  for  a  girl  who  marries  a  man  on  forty  a 
week,  and  brings  up  four  or  five  little  kids  on  it,  but 
that  doesn't  mean  I  want  to  do  it  myself!  And  I 
think  a  man  has  his  nerve  to  expect  it!" 

"I  didn't  make  you  an  offer,  you  know,  Susan,"  said 
William  pleasantly. 

"I  didn't  mean  you !"  Susan  answered  angrily.  Then 
with  sudden  calm  and  sweetness,  she  resumed,  busily 
tearing  up  and  assorting  old  letters  the  while,  "But 
now  you're  trying  to  make  me  mad,  Billy,  and  you 
don't  care  what  you  say.  The  trouble  with  you,"  sho 
went  on,  with  sisterly  kindness  and  frankness,  "is  that 
you  think  you  are  the  only  person  who  really  ought 
to  get  on  in  the  world.  You  know  so  much,  and  study 
so  hard,  that  you  deserve  to  be  rich,  so  that  you  can 
pension  off  every  old  stupid  German  laborer  at  the 
works  who  still  wants  a  job  when  they  can  get  a  boy 
of  ten  to  do  his  work  better  than  he  can!  You 
mope  away  over  there  at  those  cottages,  Bill,  until 
you  think  the  only  important  thing  in  the  world  is 
the  price  of  sausages  in  proportion  to  wages.  And 
for  all  that  you  pretend  to  despise  people  who  use 
decent  English,  and  don't  think  a  bath-tub  is  a  place 
to  store  potatoes;  I  notice  that  you  are  pretty  anxious 
to  study  languages  and  hear  good  music  and  keep 
up  in  your  reading,  yourself!  And  if  that's  not  culti- 
vation  " 

"I  never  said  a  word  about  cultivation!"  Billy,  who 
had  been  apparently  deep  in  his  book,  looked  up  to 
snap  angrily.  Any  allusion  to  his  efforts  at  self-im- 
provement always  touched  him  in  a  very  sensitive  place. 

"Why,  you  did  too!    You  said " 

"Oh,  I  did  not!     If  you're  going  to  talk  so  much, 


216  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Sue,  you  ought  to  have  some  faint  idea  what  you're 
talking  about!" 

"Very  well,"  Susan  said  loftily,  "if  you  can't  address 
me  like  a  gentleman,  we  won't  discuss  it.  I'm  not 
anxious  for  your  opinion,  anyway." 

A  silence.  Mr.  Oliver  read  with  passionate  atten- 
tion. Susan  sighed,  sorted  her  letters,  sighed  again. 

"Billy,  do  you  love  me?"  she  asked  winningly,  after 
a  pause. 

Another  silence.    Mr.  Oliver  turned  a  page. 

"Are  you  sure  you've  read  every  word  on  that  page, 
Bill, — every  little  word?" 

Silence  again. 

"You  know,  you  began  this,  Bill,"  Susan  said  pres- 
ently, with  childish  sweet  reproach.  "Don't  say  any- 
thing, Bill;  I  can't  ask  that!  But  if  you  still  love  me, 
just  smile!" 

By  some  miracle,  Billy  preserved  his  scowl. 

"Not  even  a  glimmer!"  Susan  said,  despondently. 
"I'll  tell  you,  Bill,"  she  added,  gushingly.  "Just  turn 
a  page,  and  I'll  take  it  for  a  sign  of  love !"  She  clasped 
her  hands,  and  watched  him  breathlessly. 

Mr.  Oliver  reached  the  point  where  the  page  must 
be  turned.  He  moved  his  eyes  stealthily  upward. 

"Oh,  no  you  don't !  No  going  back !"  exulted  Susan. 
She  jumped  up,  grabbed  the  book,  encircled  his  head 
with  her  arms,  kissed  her  own  hand  vivaciously  and 
made  a  mad  rush  for  the  stairs.  Mr.  Oliver  caught 
her  half-way  up  the  flight,  with  more  energy  than  dig- 
nity, and  got  his  book  back  by  doubling  her  little  finger 
over  with  an  increasing  pressure  until  Susan  managed 
to  drop  the  volume  to  the  hall  below. 

"Bill,  you  beast!  You've  broken  my  finger!"  Susan, 
breathless  and  dishevelled,  sat  beside  him  on  the  nar- 
row stair,  and  tenderly  worked  the  injured  member,  "It 
hurts!" 

"Let  Papa  tiss  it!" 

"You  try  it  once!" 

'''Sh-sh!     Ma  says  not  so  much  noise!"  hissed  Mary 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  217 

Lou,  from  the  floor  above,  where  she  had  been  sum- 
moned some  hours  ago,  "Alfie's  just  dropped  off  I" 

On  Monday  a  new  life  began  for  Susan  Brown. 
She  stepped  from  the  dingy  boarding-house  in  Fulton 
Street  straight  into  one  of  the  most  beautiful  homes 
in  the  state,  and,  so  full  were  the  first  weeks,  that  she 
had  no  time  for  homesickness,  no  time  for  letters,  no 
time  for  anything  but  the  briefest  of  scribbled  notes 
to  the  devoted  women  she  left  behind  her. 

Emily  Saunders  herself  met  the  newcomer  at  the 
station,  looking  very  unlike  an  invalid, — looking  in- 
deed particularly  well  and  happy,  if  rather  pale,  as 
she  was  always  pale,  and  a  little  too  fat  after  the  idle 
and  carefully-fed  experience  in  the  hospital.  Susan 
peeped  into  Miss  Ella's  big  room,  as  they  went  up- 
stairs. Ella  was  stretched  comfortably  on  a  wide, 
flowery  couch,  reading  as  her  maid  rubbed  her  loosened 
hair  with  some  fragrant  toilet  water,  and  munching 
chocolates. 

"Hello,  Susan  Brown!"  she  called  out.  "Come  in 
and  see  me  some  time  before  dinner, — I'm  going  out!" 

Ella's  room  was  on  the  second  floor,  where  were 
also  Mrs.  Saunders'  room,  various  guest-rooms,  an 
upstairs  music-room  and  a  sitting-room.  But  Emily's 
apartment,  as  well  as  her  brother's,  were  on  the  third 
floor,  and  Susan's  delightful  room  opened  from 
Emily's.  The  girls  had  a  bathroom  as  large  as  a 
small  bedroom,  and  a  splendid  deep  balcony  shaded  by 
gay  awnings  was  accessible  only  to  them.  Potted  ger- 
aniums made  this  big  outdoor  room  gay,  a  thick  Indian 
rug  was  on  the  floor,  there  were  deep  wicker  chairs, 
and  two  beds,  in  day-covers  of  green  linen,  with  thick 
brightly  colored  Pueblo  blankets  folded  across  them. 
The  girls  were  to  spend  all  their  days  in  the  open 
air,  and  sleep  out  here  whenever  possible  for  Emily's 
sake. 

While  Emily  bathed,  before  dinner,  Susan  hung  over 
the  balcony  rail,  feeling  deliciously  fresh  and  rested, 


218  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

after  her  own  bath,  and  eager  not  to  miss  a  moment 
of  the  lovely  summer  afternoon.  Just  below  her,  the 
garden  was  full  of  roses.  There  were  other  flowers, 
too,  carnations  and  velvety  Shasta  daisies,  there  were 
snowballs  that  tumbled  in  great  heaps  of  white  on 
the  smooth  lawn,  and  syringas  and  wall-flowers  and 
corn-flowers,  far  over  by  the  vine-embroidered  stone 
wall,  and  late  Persian  lilacs,  and  hydrangeas,  in  every 
lovely  tone  between  pink  and  lavender,  filled  a  long 
line  of  great  wooden  Japanese  tubs,  leading,  by  a  walk 
of  sunken  stones,  to  the  black  wooden  gates  of  the 
Japanese  garden.  But  the  roses  reigned  supreme — 
beautiful  standard  roses,  with  not  a  shriveled  leaf  to 
mar  the  perfection  of  blossoms  and  foliage;  San  Rafael 
roses,  flinging  out  wherever  they  could  find  a  support, 
great  sprays  of  pinkish-yellow  and  yellowish-pink,  and 
gold  and  cream  and  apricot-colored  blossoms.  There 
were  moss  roses,  sheathed  in  dark-green  film,  glowing 
Jacqueminot  and  Papagontier  and  La  France  roses, 
white  roses,  and  yellow  roses, — Susan  felt  as  if  she 
could  intoxicate  herself  upon  the  sweetness  and  the 
beauty  of  them  all. 

The  carriage  road  swept  in  a  great  curve  from  the 
gate,  its  smooth  pebbled  surface  crossed  sharply  at 
regular  intervals  by  the  clean-cut  shadows  of  the  elm 
trees.  Here  and  there  on  the  lawns  a  sprinkler  flung 
out  its  whirling  circles  of  spray,  and  while  Susan 
watched  a  gardener  came  into  view,  picked  up  a  few 
fallen  leaves  from  the  roadway  and  crushed  them  to- 
gether in  his  hand. 

On  the  newly-watered  stretch  of  road  that  showed 
beyond  the  wide  gates,  carriages  and  carts,  and  an 
occasional  motor-car  were  passing,  flinging  wheeling 
shadows  beside  them  on  the  road,  and  driven  by  girls 
in  light  gowns  and  wide  hats  or  by  grooms  in  livery. 
Presently  one  very  smart,  high  English  cart  stopped, 
and  Mr.  Kenneth  Saunders  got  down  from  it,  and 
stood  whipping  his  riding-boot  with  his  crop  and  chat- 
ting with  the  young  woman  who  had  driven  him  home. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  219 

Susan  thought  him  a  very  attractive  young  man,  with 
his  quiet,  almost  melancholy  expression,  and  his  air 
of  knowing  exactly  the  correct  thing  to  do,  whenever 
he  cared  to  exert  himself  at  all. 

She  watched  him  now  with  interest,  not  afraid  of 
detection,  for  a  small  head,  on  a  third  story  balcony, 
would  be  quite  lost  among  the  details  of  the  immense 
fagade  of  the  house.  He  walked  toward  the  stable, 
and  whistled  what  was  evidently  a  signal,  for  three 
romping  collies  came  running  to  meet  him,  and  were 
leaping  and  tumbling  about  him  as  he  went  around  the 
curve  of  the  drive  and  out  of  sight.  Then  Susan  went 
back  to  her  watching  and  dreaming,  finding  something 
new  to  admire  and  delight  in  every  moment.  The 
details  confused  her,  but  she  found  the  whole  charm- 
ing. 

Indeed,  she  had  been  in  San  Rafael  for  several 
weeks  before  she  found  the  view  of  the  big  house  from 
the  garden  anything  but  bewildering.  With  its  wings 
and  ells,  its  flowered  balconies  and  French  windows,  its 
tiled  pergola  and  flower-lined  Spanish  court,  it  stood 
a  monument  to  the  extraordinary  powers  of  the  modern 
architect;  nothing  was  incongruous,  nothing  offended. 
Susan  liked  to  decide  into  which  room  this  casement 
window  fitted,  or  why  she  never  noticed  that  particular 
angle  of  wall  from  the  inside.  It  was  always  a  dis- 
appointment to  discover  that  some  of  the  quaintest 
of  the  windows  lighted  only  linen-closets  or  perhaps 
useless  little  spaces  under  a  sharp  angle  of  roof,  and 
that  many  of  the  most  attractive  lines  outside  were 
so  cut  and  divided  as  to  be  unrecognizable  within. 

It  was  a  modern  house,  with  beautifully-appointed 
closets  tucked  in  wherever  there  was  an  inch  to  spare, 
with  sheets  of  mirror  set  in  the  bedroom  doors,  with 
every  conceivable  convenience  in  nickel-plate  glittering 
in  its  bathrooms,  and  wall-telephones  everywhere. 

The  girl's  adjectives  were  exhausted  long  before  she 
had  seen  half  of  it.  She  tried  to  make  her  own  per- 
sonal choice  between  the  dull,  soft,  dark  colors  and 


220  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

carved  Circassian  walnut  furniture  in  the  dining-room, 
and  the  sharp  contrast  of  the  reception  hall,  where  the 
sunlight  flooded  a  rosy-latticed  paper,  an  old  white 
Colonial  mantel  and  fiddle-backed  chairs,  and  struck 
dazzling  gleams  from  the  brass  fire-dogs  and  irons. 
The  drawing-room  had  its  own  charm;  the  largest 
room  in  the  house,  it  had  French  windows  on  three 
sides,  each  one  giving  a  separate  and  exquisite  glimpse 
of  lawns  and  garden  beyond.  Upon  its  dark  and  shin- 
ing floor  were  stretched  a  score  of  silky  Persian  rugs, 
roses  mirrored  themselves  in  polished  mahogany,  and 
here  and  there  were  priceless  bits  of  carved  ivory, 
wonderful  strips  of  embroidered  Chinese  silks,  minia- 
tures, and  exquisite  books.  Four  or  five  great  lamps 
glowing  under  mosaic  shades  made  the  place  lovely 
at  night,  but  in  the  heat  of  a  summer  day,  shaded, 
empty,  deliciously  airy  and  cool,  Susan  thought  it  at 
its  loveliest.  At  night  heavy  brocaded  curtains  were 
drawn  across  the  windows,  and  a  wood  fire  crackled 
in  the  fireplace,  in  a  setting  of  creamy  tiles.  There  was 
a  small  grand-piano  in  this  room,  a  larger  piano  in  the 
big,  empty  reception  room  on  the  other  side  of  the 
house,  Susan  and  Emily  had  a  small  upright  for  their 
own  use,  and  there  were  one  or  two  more  in  other 
parts  of  the  house. 

Everywhere  was  exquisite  order,  exquisite  peace. 
Lightfooted  maids  came  and  went  noiselessly,  to  brush 
up  a  fallen  daisy  petal,  or  straighten  a  rug.  Not  the 
faintest  streak  of  dust  ever  lay  across  the  shining 
surface  of  the  piano,  not  the  tiniest  cloud  ever  filmed 
the  clear  depths  of  the  mirrors.  A  slim  Chinese  house- 
boy,  in  plum-color  and  pale  blue,  with  his  queue  neatly 
coiled,  and  his  handsome,  smooth  young  face  always 
smiling,  padded  softly  to  and  fro  all  day  long,  in  his 
thick-soled  straw  slippers,  with  letters  and  magazines, 
parcels  and  messages  and  telegrams. 

"Lizzie — Carrie — one  of  you  girls  take  some  sweet- 
peas  up  to  my  room,"  Ella  would  say  at  breakfast- 
time,  hardly  glancing  up  from  her  mail.  And  an  hour 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

later  Susan,  looking  into  Miss  Saunders'  apartment  to 
see  if  she  still  expected  Emily  to  accompany  her  to 
the  Holmes  wedding,  or  to  say  that  Mrs.  Saunders 
wanted  to  see  her  eldest  daughter,  would  notice  a 
bowl  of  the  delicately-tinted  blossoms  on  the  desk, 
and  another  on  the  table. 

The  girls'  beds  were  always  made,  when  they  went 
upstairs  to  freshen  themselves  for  luncheon;  tumbled 
linen  and  used  towels  had  been  spirited  away,  fresh 
blotters  were  on  the  desk,  fresh  flowers  everywhere, 
windows  open,  books  back  on  their  shelves,  clothes 
stretched  on  hangers  in  the  closets ;  everything  im- 
maculately clean  and  crisp. 

It  was  apparently  impossible  to  interrupt  the  quiet 
running  of  the  domestic  machinery.  If  Susan  and 
Emily  left  wet  skirts  and  umbrellas  and  muddy  over- 
shoes in  one  of  the  side  hallways,  on  returning  from  a 
walk,  it  was  only  a  question  of  a  few  hours,  before  the 
skirts,  dried  and  brushed  and  pressed,  the  umbrellas 
neatly  furled,  and  the  overshoes,  as  shining  as  ever, 
were  back  in  their  places.  If  the  girls  wanted  tea  at 
five  o'clock,  sandwiches  of  every  known,  and  frequently 
of  new  types,  little  cakes  and  big,  hot  bouillons,  or  a 
salad,  or  even  a  broiled  bird  were  to  be  had  for  the 
asking.  It  was  no  trouble,  the  tray  simply  appeared 
and  Chow  Yew  or  Carrie  served  them  as  if  it  were  a 
real  pleasure  to  do  so. 

Whoever  ordered  for  the  Saunders  kitchen — Susan 
suspected  that  it  was  a  large  amiable  person  in  black 
whom  she  sometimes  met  in  the  halls,  a  person  easily 
mistaken  for  a  caller  or  a  visiting  aunt,  but  respectful 
in  manner,  and  with  a  habit  of  running  her  tongue 
over  her  teeth  when  not  speaking  that  vaguely  sug- 
gested immense  capability — did  it  on  a  very  large  scale 
indeed.  It  was  not,  as  in  poor  Auntie's  case,  a  question 
of  selecting  stewed  tomatoes  as  a  suitable  vegetable  for 
dinner,  and  penciling  on  a  list,  under  "five  pounds  round 
steak,"  "three  cans  tomatoes."  In  the  Saunders'  house 
there  was  always  to  be  had  whatever  choicest  was  ID 


222  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

season, — crabs  or  ducks,  broilers  or  trout,  asparagus 
an  inch  in  diameter,  forced  strawberries  and  peaches, 
even  pomegranates  and  alligator  pears  and  icy,  enor- 
mous grapefruit — new  in  those  days — and  melons  and 
nectarines.  There  were  crocks  and  boxes  of  cakes,  a 
whole  ice-chest  just  for  cream  and  milk,  another  for 
cheeses  and  olives  and  pickles  and  salad-dressings. 
Susan  had  seen  the  cook's  great  store-room,  lined  with 
jars  and  pots  and  crocks,  tins  and  glasses  and  boxes 
of  delicious  things  to  eat,  brought  from  all  over  the 
world  for  the  moment  when  some  member  of  the 
Saunders  family  fancied  Russian  caviar,  or  Chinese 
ginger,  or  Italian  cheese. 

Other  people's  brains  and  bodies  were  constantly  and 
pleasantly  at  work  to  spare  the  Saunders  any  effort 
whatever,  and  as  Susan,  taken  in  by  the  family,  and 
made  to  feel  absolutely  one  of  them,  soon  found  herself 
taking  hourly  service  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  as 
though  it  was  nothing  new  to  her  luxury-loving  little 
person.  If  she  hunted  for  a  book,  in  a  dark  corner  of 
the  library,  she  did  not  turn  her  head  to  see  which 
maid  touched  the  button  that  caused  a  group  of  lights, 
just  above  her,  to  spring  suddenly  into  soft  bloom, 
although  her  "Thank  you!"  never  failed;  and  when 
she  and  Emily  came  in  late  for  tea  in  the  drawing-room, 
she  piled  her  wraps  into  some  attendant's  arms  without 
so  much  as  a  glance.  Yet  Susan  personally  knew  and 
liked  all  the  maids,  and  they  liked  her,  perhaps  because 
her  unaffected  enjoyment  of  this  new  life  and  her  con- 
stant allusions  to  the  deprivations  of  the  old  days  made 
them  feel  her  a  little  akin  to  themselves. 

With  Emily  and  her  mother  Susan  was  soon  quite 
at  home;  with  Ella  her  shyness  lasted  longer;  and  to- 
ward a  friendship  with  Kenneth  Saunders  she  seemed 
to  make  no  progress  whatever.  Kenneth  addressed  a 
few  kindly,  unsmiling  remarks  to  his  mother  during 
the  course  of  the  few  meals  he  had  at  home;  he  was 
always  gentle  with  her,  and  deeply  resented  anything 
like  a  lack  of  respect  toward  her  on  the  others'  parts. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  223 

He  entirely  ignored  Emily,  and  if  he  held  any  conver- 
sation at  all  with  the  spirited  Ella,  it  was  very  apt  to 
take  the  form  of  a  controversy,  Ella  trying  to  persuade 
him  to  attend  some  dance  or  dinner,  or  Kenneth  hold- 
ing up  some  especial  friend  of  hers  for  scornful  criti- 
cism. Sometimes  he  spoke  to  Miss  Baker,  but  not 
often.  Kenneth's  friendships  were  mysteries;  his 
family  had  not  the  most  remote  idea  where  he  went 
when  he  went  out  every  evening,  or  where  he  was 
when  he  did  not  come  home.  Sometimes  he  spoke  out 
in  sudden,  half-amused  praise  of  some  debutante,  she 
was  a  "funny  little  devil,"  or  "she  was  the  decentest 
kid  in  this  year's  crop,"  and  perhaps  he  would  follow 
up  this  remark  with  a  call  or  two  upon  the  admired 
young  girl,  and  Ella  would  begin  to  tease  him  about 
her.  But  the  debutante  and  her  mother  immediately 
lost  their  heads  at  this  point,  called  on  the  Saunders, 
gushed  at  Ella  and  Emily,  and  tried  to  lure  Kenneth 
into  coming  to  little  home  dinners  or  small  theater 
parties.  This  always  ended  matters  abruptly,  and 
Kenneth  returned  to  his  old  ways. 

His  valet,  a  mournful,  silent  fellow  named  Mycroft, 
led  rather  a  curious  life,  reporting  at  his  master's  room 
in  the  morning  not  before  ten,  and  usually  not  in  bed 
before  two  or  three  o'clock  the  next  morning.  About 
once  a  fortnight,  sometimes  oftener,  as  Susan  had 
known  for  a  long  time,  a  subtle  change  came  over 
Kenneth.  His  mother  saw  it  and  grieved;  Ella  saw 
it  and  scolded  everyone  but  him.  It  cast  a  darkness 
over  the  whole  house.  Kenneth,  always  influenced 
more  or  less  by  what  he  drank,  was  going  down,  down, 
down,  through  one  dark  stage  after  another,  into  the 
terrible  state  whose  horrors  he  dreaded  with  the  rest 
of  them.  He  was  moping  for  a  day  or  two,  absent  from 
meals,  understood  to  be  "not  well,  and  in  bed."  Then 
Mycroft  would  agitatedly  report  that  Mr.  Kenneth 
was  gone;  there  would  be  tears  and  Ella's  sharpest 
voice  in  Mrs.  Saunders'  room,  pallor  and  ill-temper  on 
Emily's  part,  hushed  distress  all  about  until  Kenneth 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

was  brought  home  from  some  place  unknown  by  My- 
croft,  in  .a  cab,  and  gotten  noisily  upstairs  and  visited 
three  times  a  day  by  the  doctor.  The  doctor  would 
come  downstairs  to  reassure  Mrs.  Saunders;  Mycroft 
would  run  up  and  down  a  hundred  times  a  day  to 
wait  upon  the  invalid.  Perhaps  once  during  his  con- 
valescence his  mother  would  go  up  to  see  him  for  a 
little  while,  to  sit,  constrained  and  tender  and  unhappy, 
beside  his  bed,  wishing  perhaps  that  there  was  one 
thing  in  the  wide  world  in  which  she  and  her  son  had 
SL  common  interest. 

She  was  a  lonesome,  nervous  little  lady,  and  at  these 
times  only  a  little  more  fidgety  than  ever.  Sometimes 
she  cried  because  of  Kenneth,  in  her  room  at  night,  and 
Ella  braced  her  with  kindly,  unsympathetic,  well-meant, 
uncomprehending  remarks,  and  made  very  light  of  his 
weakness;  but  Emily  walked  her  own  room  nervously, 
raging  at  Ken  for  being  such  a  beast,  and  Mama  for 
being  such  a  fool. 

Susan,  coming  downstairs  in  the  morning  sunlight, 
after  an  evening  of  horror  and  strain,  when  the  lamps 
had  burned  for  four  hours  in  an  empty  drawing-room, 
and  she  and  Emily,  early  in  their  rooms,  had  listened 
alternately  to  the  snouting  and  thumping  that  went  on 
in  Kenneth's  room  and  the  consoling  murmur  of  Ella's 
voice  downstairs,  could  hardly  believe  that  life  was 
being  so  placidly  continued;  that  silence  and  sweetness 
still  held  sway  downstairs;  that  Ella,  in  a  foamy  robe 
of  lace  and  ribbon,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  could 
be  so  cheerfully  absorbed  in  the  day's  news  and  the 
Maryland  biscuit,  and  that  Mrs.  Saunders,  pottering 
over  her  begonias,  could  show  so  radiant  a  face  over 
the  blossoming  of  the  double  white,  that  Emily,  at  the 
telephone  could  laugh  and  joke. 

She  was  a  great  favorite  with  them  all  now,  this 
sunny,  pretty  Susan;  even  Miss  Baker,  the  mouselike 
little  trained  nurse,  beamed  for  her,  and  congratulated 
her  upon  her  influence  over  every  separate  member 
of  the  family.  Miss  Baker  had  held  her  place  for  ten. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

years  and  cherished  no  illusions  concerning  the  Saun- 
ders. 

Susan  had  lost  some  few  illusions  herself,  but  not 
many.  She  was  too  happy  to  be  critical,  and  it  was 
her  nature  to  like  people  for  no  better  reason  than  that 
they  liked  her. 

Emily  Saunders,  with  whom  she  had  most  to  do,  who 
was  indeed  her  daily  and  hourly  companion,  was  at 
this  time  about  twenty-six  years  old,  and  so  two  years 
older  than  Susan,  although  hers  was  a  smooth-skinned, 
babylike  type,  and  she  looked  quite  as  young  as  her 
companion.  She  had  had  a  very  lonely,  if  extraor- 
dinarily luxurious  childhood,  and  a  sickly  girlhood, 
whose  principal  events  were  minor  operations  on  eyes 
or  ears,  and  experiments  in  diets  and  treatments, 
miserable  sieges  with  oculists  and  dentists  and  stomach- 
pumps.  She  had  been  sent  to  several  schools,  but  ill- 
health  made  her  progress  a  great  mortification,  and 
finally  she  had  been  given  a  governess,  Miss  Roche,  a 
fussily-dressed,  effusive  Frenchwoman,  who  later 
traveled  with  her.  Emily's  only  accounts  of  her  Euro- 
pean experience  dealt  with  Miss  Roche's  masterly 
treatment  of  ungracious  officials,  her  faculty  for  making 
Emily  comfortable  at  short  notice  and  at  any  cost  or 
place,  and  her  ability  to  bring  certain  small  possessions 
through  the  custom-house  without  unnecessary  revela- 
tions. And  at  eighteen  the  younger  Miss  Saunders  had 
been  given  a  large  coming-out  tea,  had  joined  the  two 
most  exclusive  Cotillions, — the  Junior  and  the  Brown- 
ing— had  lunched  and  dined  and  gone  to  the  play  with 
the  other  debutantes,  and  had  had,  according  to  the 
admiring  and  attentive  press,  a  glorious  first  season. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  it  had  been  a  most 
unhappy  time  for  the  person  most  concerned.  Emily 
was  not  a  social  success.  Not  more  than  one  debutante 
in  ten  is;  Emily  was  one  of  the  nine.  Before  every 
dance  her  hopes  rose  irrepressibly,  as  she  gazed  at  her 
dainty  little  person  in  the  mirror,  studied  her  exquisite 
frock  and  her  pearls,  and  the  smooth  perfection  of  the 


226  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

hair  so  demurely  coiled  under  its  wreath  of  rosebuds, 
or  band  of  shining  satin.  To-night,  she  would  be  a  suc- 
cess, to-night  she  would  wipe  out  old  scores.  This 
mood  lasted  until  she  was  actually  in  the  dressing-room, 
in  a  whirl  of  arriving  girls.  Then  her  courage  began  to 
ebb.  She  would  watch  them,  as  the  maid  took  off 
her  carriage  shoes;  pleasantly  take  her  turn  at  the 
mirror,  exchange  a  shy,  half-absent  greeting  with  the 
few  she  knew;  wish,  with  all  her  heart,  that  she  dared 
put  herself  under  their  protection.  Just  a  few  were 
cool  enough  to  enter  the  big  ballroom  in  a  gale  of  mirth, 
surrender  themselves  for  a  few  moments  of  gallant 
dispute  to  the  clustered  young  men  at  the  door,  and  be 
ready  to  dance  without  a  care,  the  first  dozen  dances 
promised,  and  nothing  to  do  but  be  happy. 

But  Emily  drifted  out  shyly,  fussed  carefully  with 
fans  or  glove-clasps  while  looking  furtively  about  for 
possible  partners,  returned  in  a  panic  to  the  dressing- 
room  on  a  pretense  of  exploring  a  slipper-bag  for  a 
handkerchief,  and  made  a  fresh  start.  Perhaps  this 
time  some  group  of  chattering  and  laughing  girls  and 
men  would  be  too  close  to  the  door  for  her  comfort; 
not  invited  to  join  them,  Emily  would  feel  obliged  to 
drift  on  across  the  floor  to  greet  some  gracious  older 
woman,  and  sink  into  a  chair,  smiling  at  compliments, 
and  covering  a  defeat  with  a  regretful: 

"I'm  really  only  looking  on  to-night.  Mama  wor- 
ries so  if  I  overdo." 

And  here  she  would  feel  out  of  the  current  indeed, 
hopelessly  shelved.  Who  would  come  looking  for  a 
partner  in  this  quiet  corner,  next  to  old  Mrs.  Chicker- 
ing  whose  two  granddaughters  were  in  the  very  center 
of  the  merry  group  at  the  door?  Emily  would  smil- 
ingly rise,  and  go  back  to  the  dressing-room  again. 

The  famous  Browning  dances,  in  their  beginning,  a 
generation  earlier,  had  been  much  smaller,  less  formal 
and  more  intimate  than  they  were  now.  The  sixty 
or  seventy  young  persons  who  went  to  those  first  dances 
were  all  close  friends,  in  a  simpler  social  structure,  and 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  227 

a  less  self-conscious  day.  They  had  been  the  most  de- 
lightful events  in  Ella's  girlhood,  and  she  felt  it  to  be 
entirely  Emily's  fault  that  Emily  did  not  find  them 
equally  enchanting. 

"But  I  don't  know  the  people  who  go  to  them  very 
well!"  Emily  would  say,  half-confidential,  half-resent- 
ful. Ella  always  met  this  argument  with  high  scorn. 

"Oh,  Baby,  if  you'd  stop  whining  and  fretting,  and 
just  get  in  and  enjoy  yourself  once!"  Ella  would 
answer  impatiently.  "You  don't  have  to  know  a  man 
intimately  to  dance  with  him,  I  should  hope !  Just  go, 
and  have  a  good  time!  My  Lord,  the  way  we  all 
used  to  laugh  and  talk  and  rush  about,  you'd  have 
thought  we  were  a  pack  of  children!" 

Ella  and  her  contemporaries  always  went  to  these 
balls  even  now,  the  magnificent  matrons  of  forty  show- 
ing rounded  arms  and  beautiful  bosoms,  and  gowns  far 
more  beautiful  than  those  the  girls  wore.  Jealousy 
and  rivalry  and  heartaches  all  forgot,  they  sat  laughing 
and  talking  in  groups,  clustered  along  the  walls,  or 
played  six-handed  euchre  in  the  adjoining  card-room, 
and  had,  if  the  truth  had  been  known,  a  far  better 
time  than  the  girls  they  chaperoned. 

After  a  winter  or  two,  however,  Emily  stopped  go- 
ing, except  perhaps  once  in  a  season.  She  began  to 
devote  a  great  deal  of  her  thought  and  her  conversa- 
tion to  her  health,  and  was  not  long  in  finding  doctors 
and  nurses  to  whom  the  subject  v/as  equally  fascinating. 
Emily  had  a  favorite  hospital,  and  was  frequently 
ordered  there  for  experiences  that  touched  more  deeply 
the  chords  of  her  nature  than  anything  else  ever  did 
in  her  life.  No  one  at  home  ever  paid  her  such  flatter- 
ing devotion  as  did  the  sweet-faced,  low-voiced  nurses, 
and  the  doctor  — whose  coming,  twice  a  day,  was  such 
an  event.  The  doctor  was  a  model  husband  and  father, 
his  beautiful  wife  a  woman  whom  Ella  knew  and  liked 
very  well,  but  Emily  had  her  nickname  for  him,  and 
her  little  presents  for  him,  and  many  a  small,  innocuous 
joke  between  herself  and  the  doctor  made  her  feel 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

herself  close  to  him.  Emily  was  always  glad  when  she 
could  turn  from  her  mother's  mournful  solicitude,  Ken- 
neth's snubs  and  Ella's  imperativeness,  and  the  humili- 
ating contact  with  a  society  that  could  get  along  very 
well  without  her,  to  the  universal  welcome  she  had 
from  all  her  friends  in  Mrs.  Fowler's  hospital. 

To  Susan  the  thought  of  hypodermics,  anesthetics, 
antisepsis  and  clinic  thermometers,  charts  and  diets, 
was  utterly  mysterious  and  abhorrent,  and  her  healthy 
distaste  for  them  amused  Emily,  and  gave  Emily  a 
good  reason  for  discussing  and  defending  them. 

Susan's  part  was  to  listen  and  agree,  listen  and  agree, 
listen  and  agree,  on  this  as  on  all  topics.  She  had  not 
been  long  at  "High  Gardens"  before  Emily,  in  a  series 
of  impulsive  gushes  of  confidence,  had  volunteered  the 
information  that  Ella  was  so  jealous  and  selfish  and 
heartless  that  she  was  just  about  breaking  Mama's 
heart,  never  happy  unless  she  was  poisoning  some- 
body's mind  against  Emily,  and  never  willing  to  let 
Emily  keep  a  single  friend,  or  do  anything  she  wanted 
to  do. 

"So  now  you  see  why  I  am  always  so  dignified  and 
quiet  with  Ella,"  said  Emily,  in  the  still  midnight 
when  all  this  was  revealed.  "That's  the  one  thing  that 
makes  her  mad!" 

"I  can't  believe  it!"  said  Susan,  aching  for  sleep,  and 
yawning  under  cover  of  the  dark. 

"I  keep  up  for  Mama's  sake,"  Emily  said.  "But 
haven't  you  noticed  how  Ella  tries  to  get  you  away 
from  me?  You  must  have!  Why,  the  very  first  night 
you  were  here,  she  called  out,  'Come  in  and  see  me  on 
your  way  down!'  Don't  you  remember?  And  yester- 
day, when  I  wasn't  dressed  and  she  wanted  you  to  go 
driving,  after  dinner!  Don't  you  remember?" 

"Yes,  but "  Susan  began.  She  could  dismiss  this 

morbid  fancy  with  a  few  vigorous  protests,  with  a 
hearty  laugh.  But  she  would  probably  dismiss  herself 
from  the  Saunders'  employ,  as  well,  if  she  pursued  any 
such  bracing  policy. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"You  poor  kid,  it's  pretty  hard  on  you!"  she  said, 
admiringly.  And  for  half  an  hour  she  was  not  allowed 
to  go  to  sleep. 

Susan  began  to  dread  these  midnight  talks.  The 
moon  rose,  flooded  the  sleeping  porch,  mounted  higher. 
The  watch  under  Susan's  pillow  ticked  past  one  o'clock, 
past  half-past  one 

"Emily,  you  know  really  Ella  is  awfully  proud  of 
you,"  she  was  finally  saying,  "and,  as  for  trying  to  in- 
fluence your  mother,  you  can't  blame  her.  You're  your 
mother's  favorite — anyone  can  see  that — and  I  do  think 
she  feels " 

"Well,  that's  true !"  Emily  said,  mollified.  A  silence 
followed.  Susan  began  to  settle  her  head  by  imper- 
ceptible degrees  into  the  pillow;  perhaps  Emily  was 
dropping  off!  Silence — silence — heavenly  delicious 
silence.  What  a  wonderful  thing  this  sleeping  porch 
was,  Susan  thought  drowsily,  and  how  delicious  the 
country  night 

"Susan,  why  do  you  suppose  I  am  Mama's  fav- 
orite?" Emily's  clear,  wideawake  voice  would  pursue, 
with  pensive  interest. 

Or,  "Susan,  when  did  you  begin  to  like  me?"  she 
would  question,  on  their  drives.  "Susan,  when  I  was 
looking  straight  up  into  Mrs.  Carter's  face, — you  know 
the  way  I  always  do ! — she  laughed  at  me,  and  said  I 
was  a  madcap  monkey?  Why  did  she  say  that?" 
Emily  would  pout,  and  wrinkle  her  brows  in  pretty, 
childish  doubt.  "I'm  not  a  monkey,  and  /  don't  think 
I'm  a  madcap?  Do  you?" 

"You're  different,  you  see,  Emily.  You're  not  in 
the  least  like  anybody  else!"  Susan  would  say. 

"But  why  am  I  different?"  And  if  it  was  possible, 
Emily  might  even  come  over  to  sit  on  the  arm  of 
Susan's  chair,  or  drop  on  her  knees  and  encircle  Susan's 
waist  with  her  arms. 

"Well,  in  the  first  place  you're  terribly  original, 
Emily,  and  you  always  say  right  out  what  you  mean 
"  Susan  would  begin. 


230  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

With  Ella,  when  she  grew  to  know  her  well,  Susan 
was  really  happier.  She  was  too  honest  to  enjoy  the 
part  she  must  always  play  with  Emily,  yet  too  prac- 
tically aware  of  the  advantages  of  this  new  position, 
to  risk  it  by  frankness,  and  eventually  follow  the  other 
companions,  the  governesses  and  trained  nurses  who 
had  preceded  her.  Emily  characterized  these  de- 
parted ladies  as  "beasts,"  and  still  flushed  a  deep 
resentful  red  when  she  mentioned  certain  ones  among 
them. 

Susan  found  in  Ella,  in  the  first  place,  far  more 
to  admire  than  she  could  in  Emily.  Ella's  very  size 
made  for  a  sort  of  bigness  in  character.  She  looked 
her  two  hundred  and  thirty  pounds,  but  she  looked 
handsome,  glowing  and  comfortable  as  well.  Every- 
thing she  wore  was  loose  and  dashing  in  effect;  she 
was  a  fanatic  about  cleanliness  and  freshness,  and  al- 
ways looked  as  if  freshly  bathed  and  brushed  and 
dressed.  Ella  never  put  on  a  garment,  other  than  a 
gown  or  wrap,  twice.  Sometimes  a  little  heap  of 
snowy,  ribboned  underwear  was  carried  away  from 
her  rooms  three  or  four  times  a  day. 

She  was  dictatorial  and  impatient  and  exacting,  but 
the  was  witty  and  good-natured,  too,  and  so  extremely 
popular  with  men  and  women  of  her  own  age  that  she 
could  have  dined  out  three  times  a  night.  Ella  was 
fondly  nicknamed  "Mike"  by  her  own  contemporaries, 
and  was  always  in  demand  for  dinners  and  lunch  par- 
ties and  card  parties.  She  was  beloved  by  the  younger 
set,  too.  Susan  thought  her  big-sisterly  interest  in  the 
debutantes  very  charming  to  see  and,  when  she  had 
time  to  remember  her  sister's  little  companion  now  and 
then,  she  would  carry  Susan  off  for  a  drive,  or  send 
for  her  when  she  was  alone  for  tea,  and  the  two 
laughed  a  great  deal  together.  Susan  could  honestly 
admire  here,  and  Ella  liked  her  admiration. 

Miss  Saunders  believed  herself  to  be  a  member  of 
the  most  distinguished  American  family  in  existence, 
and  her  place  to  be  undisputed  as  queen  of  the  most 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

exclusive  little  social  circle  in  the  world.  She  knew 
enough  of  the  social  sets  of  London  and  Washington 
and  New  York  society  to  allude  to  them  casually  and 
intimately,  and  she  told  Susan  that  no  other  city  could 
boast  of  more  charming  persons  than  those  who  com- 
posed her  own  particular  set  in  San  Francisco.  Ella 
never  spoke  of  "society"  without  intense  gravity;  noth- 
ing in  life  interested  her  so  much  as  the  question  of 
belonging  or  not  belonging  to  it.  To  her  personally, 
of  course,  it  meant  nothing;  she  had  been  born  inside 
the  charmed  ring,  and  would  die  there;  but  the  status 
of  othsr  persons  filled  her  with  concern.  She  was  very 
angry  when  her  mother  or  Emily  showed  any  wavering 
in  this  all-important  matter. 

"Well,  what  did  you  have  to  see  her  for,  Mama?" 
Ella  would  irritably  demand,  when  her  autocratic 
"Who'd  you  see  to-day?  What'd  you  do?"  had 
drawn  from  her  mother  the  name  of  some  caller. 

"Why,  dearie,  I  happened  to  be  right  there.  I  was 
just  crossing  the  porch  when  they  drove  up!"  Mrs. 
Saunders  would  timidly  submit. 

"Oh,  Lord,  Lord,  Lord!  Mama,  you  make  me 
crazy!"  Ella  would  drop  her  hands,  fling  her  head 
back,  gaze  despairingly  at  her  mother.  "That  was 
your  chance  to  snub  her,  Mama !  Why  didn't  you 
have  Chow  Yew  say  that  you  were  out?" 

"But,  dearie,  she  seemed  a  real  sweet  little  thing!" 

"Sweet  little !  You'll  have  me  crazy!  Sweet 

little  nothing — just  because  she  married  Gordon  Jones, 
and  the  St.  Johns  have  taken  her  up,  she  thinks  she 
can  get  into  society!  And  anyway,  I  wouldn't  have 
given  Rosie  St.  John  the  satisfaction  for  a  thousand 
dollars  1  Did  you  ask  her  to  your  bridge  lunch?" 

"Ella,  dear,  it  is  my  lunch,"  her  mother  might  re- 
mind her,  with  dignity. 

"Mama,  did  you  ask  that  woman  here  to  play 
cards?" 

"Well,  dearie,  she  happened  to  say " 

"Oh,  happened  to  say !"    A  sudden  calm  would 


232  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

fall  upon  Miss  Ella,  the  calm  of  desperate  decision. 
The  subject  would  be  dropped  for  the  time,  but  she 
would  bring  a  written  note  to  the  lunch  table. 

"Listen  to  this,  Mama;  I  can  change  it  if  you  don't 
like  it,"  Ella  would  begin,  kindly,  and  proceed  to  read 
it. 

HIGH  GARDENS. 
MY  DEAR  MRS.  JONES  : 

Mother  has  asked  me  to  write  you  that  her  little  bridge  lunch 
for  Friday,  the  third,  must  be  given  up  because  of  the  dangerous 
illness  of  a  close  personal  friend.  She  hopes  that  it  is  only  a 
pleasure  deferred,  and  will  write  you  herself  when  less  anxious 
and  depressed.  Cordially  yours, 

ELLA  CORNWALLIS  SAUNDERS. 

"But,  Ella,  dear,"  the  mother  would  protest,  "there 
are  others  coming " 

"Leave  the  others  to  me !  I'll  telephone  and  make 
it  the  day  before."  Ella  would  seal  and  dispatch  the 
note,  and  be  inclined  to  feel  generously  tender  and 
considerate  of  her  mother  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Ella  was  at  home  for  a  few  moments,  almost  every 
day;  but  she  did  not  dine  at  home  more  than  once  or 
twice  in  a  fortnight.  But  she  was  always  there  for  the 
family's  occasional  formal  dinner  party  in  which 
events  Susan  refused  very  sensibly  to  take  part.  She 
and  Miss  Baker  dined  early  and  most  harmoniously 
in  the  breakfast-room,  and  were  free  to  make  them- 
selves useful  to  the  ladies  of  the  house  afterward. 
Ella  would  be  magnificent  in  spangled  cloth-of-gold; 
Emily  very  piquante  in  demure  and  drooping  white, 
embroidered  exquisitely  with  tiny  French  blossoms  in 
color;  Mrs.  Saunders  rustling  in  black  lace  and  laven- 
der silk,  as  the  three  went  downstairs  at  eight  o'clock- 
Across  the  wide  hall  below  would  stream  the  hooded 
women  and  the  men  in  great-coats,  silk  hats  in  hand. 
Ella  did  not  leave  the  drawing-room  to  meet  them, 
as  on  less  formal  occasions,  but  a  great  chattering  and 
laughing  would  break  out  as  they  went  in. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  233 

Susan,  sitting  back  on  her  knees  in  the  upper  hall, 
to  peer  through  the  railing  at  the  scene  below,  to  Miss 
Baker's  intense  amusement,  could  admire  everything 
but  the  men  guests.  They  were  either  more  or  less 
attractive  and  married,  thought  Susan,  or  very  young, 
very  old,  or  very  uninteresting  bachelors.  Red-faced, 
eighteen-year-old  boys,  laughing  nervously,  and  stumb- 
ling over  their  pumps,  shared  the  honors  with  cackling 
little  fifty-year-old  gallants.  It  could  only  be  said 
that  they  were  males,  and  that  Ella  would  have  cheer- 
fully consigned  her  mother  to  bed  with  a  bad  headache 
rather  than  have  had  one  too  few  of  them  to  evenly 
balance  the  number  of  women.  The  members  of  the 
family  knew  what  patience  and  effort  were  required, 
what  writing  and  telephoning,  before  the  right  number 
was  acquired. 

The  first  personal  word  that  Kenneth  Saunders  ever 
spoke  to  his  sister's  companion  was  when,  running 
downstairs,  on  the  occasion  of  one  of  these  dinners,  he 
came  upon  her,  crouched  in  her  outlook,  and  thor- 
oughly enjoying  herself. 

"Good  God!"  said  Kenneth,  recoiling. 

"Sh-sh — it's  only  me — I'm  watching  'em!"  Susan 
whispered,  even  laying  her  hand  upon  the  immaculate 
young  gentleman's  arm  in  her  anxiety  to  quiet  him. 

"Why,  Lord;  why  doesn't  Ella  count  you  in  on 
these  things?"  he  demanded,  gruffly.  "Next  time  I'll 
tell  her " 

"If  you  do,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again!"  Susan 
threatened,  her  merry  face  close  to  his  in  the  dark. 
"I  wouldn't  be  down  there  for  a  farm!" 

"What  do  you  do,  just  watch  'em?"  Kenneth  asked 
sociably,  hanging  over  the  railing  beside  her. 

"It's  lots  of  fun!"  Susan  said,  in  a  whisper.  "Who's 
that?" 

"That's  that  Bacon  girl — isn't  she  the  limit!"  Ken- 
neth whispered  back.  "Lord,"  he  added  regretfully, 
"I'd  much  rather  stay  up  here  than  go  down!  What 
Ella  wants  to  round  up  a  gang  like  this  for " 


234.  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

And,  sadly  speculating,  the  son  of  the  house  ran 
downstairs,  and  Susan,  congratulating  herself,  returned 
to  her  watching. 

Indeed,  after  a  month  or  two  in  her  new  position, 
she  thought  an  evening  to  herself  a  luxury  to  be  enor- 
mously enjoyed.  It  was  on  such  an  occasion  that  Susan 
got  the  full  benefit  of  the  bathroom,  the  luxuriously 
lighted  and  appointed  dressing-table,  the  porcli  with  its 
view  of  a  dozen  gardens  drenched  in  heavenly  moon- 
light. At  other  times  Emily's  conversation  distracted 
her  and  interrupted  her  at  her  toilet.  Emily  gave  her 
no  instant  alone. 

Emily  came  up  very  late  after  the  dinners  to  yawn 
and  gossip  with  Susan  while  Gerda,  her  mother's  staid 
middle-aged  maid,  drew  off  her  slippers  and  stockings, 
and  reverently  lifted  the  dainty  gown  safely  to  its 
closet.  Susan  always  got  up,  rolled  herself  in  a  wrap, 
and  listened  to  the  account  of  the  dinner;  Emily  was 
rather  critical  of  the  women,  but  viewed  the  men  more 
romantically.  She  repeated  their  compliments,  exult- 
ing that  they  had  been  paid  her  "under  Ella's  very 
nose,"  or  while  "Mama  was  staring  right  at  us."  It 
pleased  Emily  to  imagine  a  great  many  love-affairs  for 
herself,  and  to  feel  that  they  must  all  be  made  as 
mysterious  and  kept  as  secret  as  possible. 

It  was  the  old  story,  thought  Susan,  listening  sym- 
pathetically, and  in  utter  disbelief,  to  these  recitals. 
Mary  Lou  and  Georgie  were  not  alone  in  claiming 
vague  and  mythical  love-affairs;  Emily  even  carried 
them  to  the  point  of  indicating  old  bundles  of  letters  in 
her  desk  as  "from  Bob  Brock — tell  you  all  about  that 
some  time !"  or  alluding  to  some  youth  who  had  gone 
away,  left  that  part  of  the  country  entirely  for  her 
sake,  some  years  ago.  And  even  Georgie  would  not 
have  taken  as  seriously  as  Emily  did  the  least  accidental 
exchange  of  courtesies  with  the  eligible  male.  If  the 
two  girls,  wasting  a  morning  in  the  shops  in  town,  hap- 
pened to  meet  some  hurrying  young  man  in  the  street, 
the  color  rushed  into  Emily's  face,  and  she  alluded  to 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  235 

the  incident  a  dozen  times  during  the  course  of  the 
day.  Like  most  girls,  she  had  a  special  manner  for 
men,  a  rather  audacious  and  attractive  manner,  Susan 
thought.  The  conversation  was  never  anything  but 
gay  and  frivolous  and  casual.  It  always  pleased  Emily 
when  such  a  meeting  occurred. 

"Did  you  notice  that  Peyton  Hamilton  leaned  over 
and  said  something  to  me  very  quickly,  in  a  low  voice, 
this  morning?"  Emily  would  ask,  later,  suddenly  look- 
ing mischievous  and  penitent  at  once. 

"Oh,  ho!  That's  what  you  do  when  I'm  not 
noticing!"  Susan  would  upbraid  her. 

"He  asked  me  if  he  could  call,"  Emily  would  say, 
yawning,  "but  I  told  him  I  didn't  like  him  well  enough 
for  that!" 

Susan  was  astonished  to  find  herself  generally  ac- 
cepted because  of  her  association  with  Emily  Saunders. 
She  had  always  appreciated  the  difficulty  of  entering 
the  inner  circle  of  society  with  insufficient  credentials. 
Now  she  learned  how  simple  the  whole  thing  was  when 
the  right  person  or  persons  assumed  the  responsibility. 
Girls  whom  years  ago  she  had  rather  fancied  to  be 
"snobs"  and  "stuck-up"  proved  very  gracious,  very 
informal  and  jolly,  at  closer  view;  even  the  most 
prominent  matrons  began  to  call  her  "child"  and  "you 
little  Susan  Brown,  you!"  and  show  her  small  kind- 
nesses. 

Susan  took  them  at  exactly  their  own  valuation, 
revered  those  women  who,  like  Ella,  were  supreme; 
watched  curiously  others  a  little  less  sure  of  their 
standing;  and  pitied  and  smiled  at  the  struggles  of  the 
third  group,  who  took  rebuffs  and  humiliations  smil- 
ingly, and  fell  only  to  rise  and  climb  again.  Susan 
knew  that  the  Thayers,  the  Chickeririgs  and  Chaunceys 
and  Goughs,  the  Saunders  and  the  St.  Johns,  and  Dolly 
Ripley,  the  great  heiress,  were  really  secure,  nothing 
could  shake  them  from  their  proud  eminence.  It  gave 
her  a  little  satisfaction  to  put  the  Baxters  and  Peter 


236  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Coleman  decidedly  a  step  below;  even  lovely  Isabel 
Wallace  and  the  Carters  and  the  Geralds,  while  orna- 
menting the  very  nicest  set,  were  not  quite  the  social 
authorities  that  the  first-named  families  were.  And 
several  lower  grades  passed  before  one  came  to  Connie 
Fox  and  her  type,  poor,  pushing,  ambitious,  watching 
every  chance  to  score  even  the  tiniest  progress  toward 
the  goal  of  social  recognition.  Connie  Fox  and  her 
mother  were  a  curious  study  to  Susan,  who,  far  more 
secure  for  the  time  being  than  they  were,  watched  them 
with  deep  interest.  The  husband  and  father  was  an 
insurance  broker,  whose  very  modest  income  might 
have  comfortably  supported  a  quiet  country  home, 
and  one  maid,  and  eventually  have  been  stretched 
to  afford  the  daughter  and  only  child  a  college 
education  or  a  trousseau  as  circumstances  decreed. 
As  it  was,  a  little  house  on  Broadway  was  main- 
tained with  every  appearance  of  luxury,  a  capped- 
and-aproned  maid  backed  before  guests  through  the 
tiny  hall;  Connie's  vivacity  covered  the  long  wait 
for  the  luncheons  that  an  irate  Chinese  cook,  whose 
wages  were  perpetually  in  arrears,  served  when  it 
pleased  him  to  do  so.  Mrs.  Fox  bought  prizes  for 
Connie's  gay  little  card-parties  with  the  rent  money, 
and  retired  with  a  headache  immediately  after  tear- 
fully informing  the  harassed  breadwinner  of  the  fact. 
She  ironed  Connie's  gowns,  bullied  her  little  dress- 
maker, cried  and  made  empty  promises  to  her  milliner, 
cut  her  old  friends,  telephoned  her  husband  at  six 
o'clock  that,  as  "the  girls"  had  not  gone  yet,  perhaps 
he  had  better  have  a  bite  of  dinner  downtown.  She 
gushed  and  beamed  on  Connie's  friends,  cultivated 
those  she  could  reach  assiduously,  and  never  dreamed 
that  a  great  many  people  were  watching  her  with 
amusement  when  she  worked  her  way  about  a  room  to 
squeeze  herself  in  next  to  some  social  potentate. 

She  had  her  reward  when  the  mail  brought  Con- 
stance the  coveted  dance-cards ;  when  she  saw  her  name 
in  the  society  columns  of  the  newspapers,  and  was  able 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  237 

to  announce  carelessly  that  that  lucky  girlie  of  hers  was 
really  going  to  Honolulu  with  the  Cyrus  Holmes. 
Dolly  Ripley,  the  heiress,  had  taken  a  sudden  fancy 
to  Connie,  some  two  years  before  Susan  met  her,  and 
this  alone  was  enough  to  reward  Mrs.  Fox  for  all  the 
privations,  snubs  and  humiliations  she  had  suffered 
since  the  years  when  she  curled  Connie's  straight  hair 
on  a  stick,  nearly  blinded  herself  tucking  and  em- 
broidering her  little  dresses,  and  finished  up  the  week's 
ironing  herself  so  that  her  one  maid  could  escort 
Connie  to  an  exclusive  little  dancing-class. 

Susan  saw  Connie  now  and  then,  and  met  the  mother 
and  daughter  on  a  certain  autumn  Sunday  when  Ella 
had  chaperoned  the  two  younger  girls  to  a  luncheon  at 
the  Burlingame  club-house.  They  had  spent  the  night 
before  with  a  friend  of  Ella's,  whose  lovely  country 
home  was  but  a  few  minutes'  walk  from  the  club,  and 
Susan  was  elated  with  the  glorious  conviction  that  she 
had  added  to  the  gaiety  of  the  party,  and  that  through 
her  even  Emily  was  having  a  really  enjoyable  time. 
She  met  a  great  many  distinguished  persons  to-day, 
the  golf  and  polo  players,  the  great  Eastern  actress 
who  was  the  center  of  a  group  of  adoring  males,  and 
was  being  entertained  by  the  oldest  and  most  capable 
of  dowagers,  and  Dolly  Ripley,  a  lean,  eager,  round- 
shouldered,  rowdyish  little  person,  talking  as  a  pro- 
fessional breeder  might  talk  of  her  dogs  and  horses, 
and  shadowed  by  Connie  Fox.  Susan  was  so  filled 
with  the  excitement  of  the  occasion,  the  beauty  of  the 
day,  the  delightful  club  and  its  delightful  guests,  that 
she  was  able  to  speak  to  Miss  Dolly  Ripley  quite  as 
if  she  also  had  inherited  some  ten  millions  of  dollars, 
and  owned  the  most  expensive,  if  not  the  handsomest, 
home  in  the  state. 

"That  was  so  like  dear  Dolly!"  said  Mrs.  Fox  later, 
coming  up  behind  Susan  on  the  porch,  and  slipping 
an  arm  girlishly  about  her  waist. 

"What  was?"  asked  Susan,  after  greetings. 

"Why,  to  ask  what  your  first  name  was,  and  say 


238  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

that  as  she  hated  the  name  of  Brown,  she  was  going  to 
call  you  Susan  I"  said  Mrs.  Fox  sweetly.  "Don't  you 
find  her  very  dear  and  simple?" 

"Why,  I  just  met  her "  Susan  said,  disliking  the 

arm  about  her  waist,  and  finding  Mrs.  Fox's  interest  in 
her  opinion  of  Dolly  Ripley  quite  transparent. 

"Ah,  I  know  her  so  well!"  Mrs.  Fox  added,  with 
a  happy  sigh.  "Always  bright  and  interested  when 
she  meets  people.  But  I  scold  her — yes,  I  do! — for 
giving  people  a  false  impression.  I  say,  'Dolly,' — I've 
known  her  so  long,  you  know! — 'Dolly,  dear,  people 
might  easily  think  you  meant  some  of  these  impulsive 
things  you  say,  dear,  whereas  your  friends,  who  know 
you  really  well,  know  that  it's  just  your  little  manner, 
and  that  you'll  have  forgotten  all  about  it  to-morrow !' 
I  don't  mean  you,  Miss  Brown,"  Mrs.  Fox  interrupted 

herself  to  say  hastily.  "Far  from  it! Now,  my 

dear,  tell  me  that  you  know  I  didn't  mean  you !" 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  Susan  said  graciously. 
And  she  knew  that  at  last  she  really  did.  Mrs.  Fox  was 
fluttering  like  some  poor  bird  that  sees  danger  near  its 
young.  She  couldn't  have  anyone  else,  especially  this 
insignificant  little  Miss  Brown,  who  seemed  to  be  mak- 
ing rather  an  impression  everywhere,  jeopardize  Con- 
nie's intimacy  with  Dolly  Ripley,  without  using  such 
poor  and  obvious  little  weapons  as  lay  at  her  command 
to  prevent  it. 

Standing  on  the  porch  of  the  Burlingame  Club,  and 
staring  out  across  the  gracious  slopes  of  the  landscape, 
Susan  had  an  exhilarated  sense  of  being  among  the 
players  of  this  fascinating  game  at  last.  She  must  play 
it  alone,  to  be  sure,  but  far  better  alone  than  assisted 
as  Connie  Fox  was  assisted.  It  was  an  immense  ad- 
vantage to  be  expected  to  accompany  Emily  every- 
where; it  made  a  snub  practically  impossible,  while 
heightening  th$  compliment  when  she  was  asked  any- 
where without  Emily.  Susan  was  always  willing  to 
entertain  a  difficult  guest,  to  play  cards  or  not  to  play 
with  apparently  equal  enjoyment— -more  desirable  than 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  239 

either,  she  was  "fun,"  and  the  more  she  was  laughed 
at,  the  funnier  she  grew. 

"And  you'll  be  there  with  Emily,  of  course,  Miss 
Brown,"  said  the  different  hostess  graciously.  "Emily, 

you're  going  to  bring  Susan  Brown,  you  know ! 

I'm  telephoning,  Miss  Brown,  because  I'm  afraid  my 
note  didn't  make  it  clear  that  we  want  you,  too !" 

Emily's  well-known  eccentricity  did  not  make  Susan 
the  less  popular;  even  though  she  was  personally  in- 
volved in  it. 

"Oh,  I  wrote  you  a  note  for  Emily  this  morning, 
Mrs.  Willis,"  Susan  would  say,  at  the  club,  "she's 
feeling  wretchedly  to-day,  and  she  wants  to  be  excused 
from  your  luncheon  to-morrow!" 

"Oh?"  The  matron  addressed  would  eye  the  mes- 
senger with  kindly  sharpness.  "What's  the  matter — 
very  sick?" 

"We-ell,  not  dying!"  A  dimple  would  betray  the 
companion's  demureness. 

"Not  dying?  No,  I  suppose  not!  Well,  you  tell 
Emily  that  she's  a  silly,  selfish  little  cat,  or  words  to 
that  effect!" 

"I'll  choose  words  to  that  effect,"  Susan  would 
assure  the  speaker,  smilingly. 

"You  couldn't  come,  anyway,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Willis!  Thank  you  so  much!" 

"No,  of  course  not."  The  matron  would  bite  her 
lips  in  momentary  irritation,  and,  when  they  parted,  the 
cause  of  that  pretty,  appreciative,  amusing  little  com- 
panion of  Emily  Saunders  would  be  appreciably 
strengthened. 

One  winter  morning  Emily  tossed  a  square,  large 
envelope  across  the  breakfast  table  toward  her  com- 
panion. 

"Sue,  that  looks  like  a  Browning  invitation!  What 
do  you  bet  that  he's  sent  you  a  card  for  the  dances !" 

"He  couldn't!"  gasped  Susan,  snatching  it  up,  while 
her  eyes  danced,  and  the  radiant  color  flooded  her 


240  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

face.  Her  hand  actually  shook  when  she  tore  the  en- 
velope open,  and  as  the  engraved  card  made  its  ap- 
pearance, Susan's  expression  might  have  been  that  of 
Cinderella  eyeing  her  coach-and-four. 

For  Browning — founder  of  the  cotillion  club,  and 
still  manager  of  the  four  or  five  winter  dances — was 
the  one  unquestioned,  irrefutable,  omnipotent  social 
authority  of  San  Francisco.  To  go  to  the  "Brownings" 
was  to  have  arrived  socially;  no  other  distinction  was 
equivalent,  because  there  was  absolutely  no  other 
standard  of  judgment.  Very  high  up,  indeed,  in  the 
social  scale  must  be  the  woman  who  could  resist  the 
temptation  to  stick  her  card  to  the  Browninjgs  in  her 
mirror  frame,  where  the  eyes  of  her  women  friends 
must  inevitably  fall  upon  it,  and  yearly  hundreds  of 
matrons  tossed  through  sleepless  nights,  all  through  the 
late  summer  and  the  fall,  hoping  against  hope,  despair- 
ing, hoping  again,  that  the  magic  card  might  really 
be  delivered  some  day  in  early  December,  and  her 
debutante  daughter's  social  position  be  placed  beyond 
criticism  once  more.  Only  perhaps  one  hundred  per- 
sons out  of  "Brownie's"  four  hundred  guests  could 
be  sure  of  the  privilege.  The  others  must  suffer  and 
wait. 

Browning  himself,  a  harassed,  overworked,  kindly 
gentleman,  whose  management  of  the  big  dances 
brought  him  nothing  but  responsibility  and  annoyance, 
threatened  yearly  to  resign  from  his  post,  and  yearly 
was  dragged  back  into  the  work,  fussing  for  hours 
with  his  secretary  over  the  list,  before  he  could  per- 
sonally give  it  to  the  hungrily  waiting  reporters  with 
the  weary  statement  that  it  was  absolutely  correct,  that 
no  more  names  were  to  be  added  this  year,  that  he 
did  not  propose  to  defend,  through  the  columns  of 
the  press,  his  omission  of  certain  names  and  his  ac- 
ceptance of  others,  and  that,  finally,  he  was  off  for  a 
week's  vacation  in  the  southern  part  of  the  state,  and 
thanked  them  all  for  their  kindly  interest  in  himself 
and  his  efforts  for  San  Francisco  society. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

It  was  the  next  morning's  paper  that  was  so  anxi- 
ously awaited,  and  so  eagerly  perused  in  hundreds  of 
luxurious  boudoirs — exulted  over,  or  wept  over  and  re- 
viled,— but  read  by  nearly  every  woman  in  the  city. 

And  now  he  had  sent  Susan  a  late  card,  and  Susan 
knew  why.  She  had  met  the  great  man  at  the  Hotel 
Rafael  a  few  days  before,  at  tea-time,  and  he  had 
asked  Susan  most  affectionately  of  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster, and  recalled,  with  a  little  emotion,  the  dances 
of  two  generations  before,  when  he  was  a  small  boy, 
and  the  lovely  Georgianna  Ralston  was  a  beauty  and 
a  belle.  Susan  could  have  kissed  the  magic  bit  of 
pasteboard! 

But  she  knew  too  well  just  what  Emily  wanted  to 
think  of  Browning's  courtesy,  to  mention  his  old  ad- 
miration for  her  aunt.  And  Emily  immediately  justi- 
fied her  diplomatic  silence  by  saying: 

"Isn't  that  awfully  decent  of  Brownie !  He  did  that 
just  for  Ella  and  me — that's  like  him  I  He'll  do  any- 
thing for  some  people!" 

"Well,  of  course  I  can't  go,"  Susan  said  briskly. 
"But  I  do  call  it  awfully  decent!  And  no  little  remarks 
about  sending  a  check,  either,  and  no  chaperone's  card ! 
The  old  duck!  However,  I  haven't  a  gown,  and  I 
haven't  a  beau,  and  you  don't  go,  and  so  I'll  write  a 
tearful  regret.  I  hope  it  won't  be  the  cause  of  his 
giving  the  whole  thing  up.  I  hate  to  discourage  the 
dear  boy!" 

Emily  laughed  approvingly. 

"No,  but  honestly,  Sue,"  she  said,  in  eager  assent, 
"don't  you  know  how  people  would  misunderstand — 
you  know  how  people  are !  You  and  I  know  that  you 
don't  care  a  whoop  about  society,  and  that  you'd  be 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  use  your  position  here — 
but  you  know  what  other  people  might  say!  And 
Brownie  hates  talk " 

Susan  had  to  swallow  hard,  and  remain  smiling.  It 
was  part  of  the  price  that  she  paid  for  being  here  in 
this  beautiful  environment,  for  being,  in  every  material 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

sense,  a  member  of  one  of  the  state's  richest  families. 
She  could  not  say,  as  she  longed  to  say,  "Oh,  Emily, 
don't  talk  rot!  You  know  that  before  your  own  grand- 
father made  his  money  as  a  common  miner,  and  when 
Isabel  Wallace's  grandfather  was  making  shoes,  mine 
was  a  rich  planter  in  Virginia !"  But  she  knew  that 
she  could  safely  have  treated  Emily's  own  mother  with 
rudeness,  she  could  have  hopelessly  mixed  up  the  letters 
she  wrote  for  Ella,  she  could  have  set  the  house  on  fire 
or  appropriated  to  her  own  use  the  large  sums  of 
money  she  occasionally  was  entrusted  by  the  family 
to  draw  for  one  purpose  or  another  from  the  bank, 
and  been  quickly  forgiven,  if  forgivness  was  a  con- 
venience to  the  Saunders  family  at  the  moment.  But 
to  fail  to  realize  that  between  the  daughter  of  the 
house  of  Saunders  and  the  daughter  of  the  house  of 
Brown  an  unspanned  social  chasm  must  forever 
stretch  would  have  been,  indeed,  the  unforgivable 
offense. 

It  was  all  very  different  from  Susan's  old  ideals  of 
a  paid  companion's  duties.  She  had  drawn  these 
ideals  from  the  English  novels  she  consumed  with  much 
enjoyment  in  early  youth — from  "Queenie's  Whim" 
and  "Uncle  Max"  and  the  novels  of  Charlotte  Yonge. 
She  had  imagined  herself,  before  her  arrival  at  "High 
Gardens,"  as  playing  piano  duets  with  Emily,  reading 
French  for  an  hour,  German  for  an  hour,  gardening, 
tramping,  driving,  perhaps  making  a  call  on  some  sick 
old  woman  with  soup  and  jelly  in  her  basket,  or  carry- 
ing armfuls  of  blossoms  to  the  church  for  decora- 
tion. If  one  of  Emily's  sick  headaches  came  on,  it 
would  be  Susan's  duty  to  care  for  her  tenderly,  and  to 
read  to  her  in  a  clear,  low,  restful  voice  when  she 
was  recovering;  to  write  her  notes,  to  keep  her  vases 
filled  with  flowers,  to  "preside"  at  the  tea-table,  ef- 
ficient, unobtrusive,  and  indispensable.  She  would 
make  herself  useful  to  Ella,  too;  arrange  her  collec- 
tions of  coins,  carry  her  telephone  messages,  write  her 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

notes.  She  would  accompany  the  little  old  mother  on 
her  round  through  the  greenhouses,  read  to  her  and 
be  ready  to  fly  for  her  book  or  her  shawl.  And  if 
Susan's  visionary  activities  also  embraced  a  little  mis- 
sionary work  in  the  direction  of  the  son  of  the  house, 
it  was  of  a  very  sisterly  and  blameless  nature.  Surely 
the  most  demure  of  companions,  reading  to  Mrs. 
Saunders  in'  the  library,  might  notice  an  attentive 
listener  lounging  in  a  dark  corner,  or  might  color  shyly 
when  Ken's  sisters  commented  on  the  fact  that  he 
seemed  to  be  at  home  a  good  deal  these  days. 

It  was  a  little  disillusioning  to  discover,  as  during 
her  first  weeks  in  the  new  work  she  did  discover,  that 
almost  no  duties  whatever  would  be  required  of  her. 
It  seemed  to  make  more  irksome  the  indefinite  thing 
that  was  required  of  her;  her  constant  interested  par- 
ticipation in  just  whatever  happened  to  interest  Emily 
at  the  moment.  Susan  loved  tennis  and  driving,  loved 
shopping  and  lunching  in  town,  loved  to  stroll  over  to 
the  hotel  for  tea  in  the  pleasant  afternoons,  or  was 
satisfied  to  lie  down  and  read  for  an  hour  or  two. 

But  it  was  very  trying  to  a  person  of  her  definite 
impulsive  briskness  never  to  know,  from  one  hour  or 
one  day  to  the  next,  just  what  occupation  was  in  pros- 
pect. Emily  would  order  the  carriage  for  four  o'clock, 
only  to  decide,  when  it  came  around,  that  she  would 
rather  drag  the  collies  out  into  the  side-garden,  to 
waste  three  dozen  camera  plates  and  three  hours  in 
trying  to  get  good  pictures  of  them.  Sometimes 
Emily  herself  posed  before  the  camera,  and  Susan  took 
picture  after  picture  of  her. 

"Sue,  don't  you  think  it  would  be  fun  to  try  some  of 
me  in  my  Mandarin  coat?  Come  up  while  I  get  into  it. 
Oh,  and  go  get  Chow  Yew  to  get  that  Chinese  violin 
he  plays,  and  I'll  hold  it!  We'll  take  'em  in  the  Japa- 
nese garden!"  Emily  would  be  quite  fired  with  en- 
thusiasm, but  before  the  girls  were  upstairs  she  might 
change  in  favor  of  her  riding  habit  and  silk  hat,  and 
Susan  would  telephone  the  stable  that  Miss  Emily's 


244  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

riding  horse  was  wanted  in  the  side-garden.  "You're 
a  darling!"  she  would  say  to  Susan,  after  an  exhaust- 
ing hour  or  two.  "Now,  next  time  I'll  take  you !" 

But  Susan's  pictures  never  were  taken.  Emily's  in- 
terest rarely  touched  twice  in  the  same  place. 

"Em,  it's  twenty  minutes  past  four !  Aren't  we  going 
to  tea  with  Isabel  Wallace?"  Susan  would  ask,  coming 
in  to  find  Emily  comfortably  stretched  out  with  a  book. 

"Oh,  Lord,  so  we  were!  Well,  let's  not!"  Emily 
would  yawn. 

"But,  Em,  they  expect  us!" 

"Well,  go  telephone,  Sue,  there's  a  dear!  And  tell 
them  I've  got  a  terrible  headache.  And  you  and  I'll 
have  tea  up  here.  Tell  Carrie  I  want  to  see  her  about 
it;  I'm  hungry;  I  want  to  order  it  specially." 

Sometimes,  when  the  girls  came  downstairs,  dressed 
for  some  outing,  it  was  Miss  Ella  who  upset  their 
plans.  Approving  of  her  little  sister's  appearance,  she 
would  lure  Emily  off  for  a  round  of  formal  calls. 

"Be  decent  now,  Baby!  You'll  never  have  a  good 
time,  if  you  don't  go  and  do  the  correct  thing  now  and 
then.  Come  on.  I'm  going  to  town  on  the  two,  and 
we  can  get  a  carriage  right  at  the  ferry " 

But  Susan  rarely  managed  to  save  the  afternoon. 
Going  noiselessly  upstairs,  she  was  almost  always  cap- 
tured by  the  lonely  old  mistress  of  the  house. 

"Girls  gone?"  Mrs.  Saunders  would  pipe,  in  her 
cracked  little  voice,  from  the  doorway  of  her  rooms. 
"Don't  the  house  seem  still?  Come  in,  Susan,  you  and 
I'll  console  each  other  over  a  cup  of  tea." 

Susan,  smilingly  following  her,  would  be  at  a  loss  to 
account  for  her  own  distaste  and  disappointment.  But 
she  was  so  tired  of  people !  She  wanted  so  desperately 
to  be  alone ! 

The  precious  chance  would  drift  by,  a  rich  tea  would 
presently  be  served;  the  little  over-dressed,  over-fed 
old  lady  was  really  very  lonely;  she  went  to  a  luncheon 
or  card-party  not  oftener  than  two  or  three  times  a 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  245 

month,  and  she  loved  company.  There  was  almost  no 
close  human  need  or  interest  in  her  life;  she  was  as 
far  from  her  children  as  was  any  other  old  lady  of 
their  acquaintance. 

Susan  knew  that  she  had  been  very  proud  of  her 
sons  and  daughters,  as  a  happy  young  mother.  The 
girl  was  continually  discovering,  among  old  Mrs. 
Saunders'  treasures,  large  pictures  of  Ella,  at  five,  at 
seven,  at  nine,  with  straight  long  bangs  and  rosetted 
hats  that  tied  under  her  chin,  and  French  dresses  tied 
with  sashes  about  her  knees,  and  pictures  of  Kenneth 
leaning  against  stone  benches,  or  sitting  in  swings,  a 
thin  and  sickly-looking  little  boy,  in  a  velvet  suit  and 
ribboned  straw  hat.  There  were  pictures  of  the  dead 
children,  too,  and  a  picture  of  Emily,  at  three  months, 
sitting  in  an  immense  shell,  and  clad  only  in  the  folds 
of  her  own  fat  little  person.  On  the  backs  of  these 
pictures,  Mrs.  Saunders  had  written  "Kennie,  six 
years  old,"  and  the  date,  or  "Totty,  aged  nine" — she 
never  tired  of  looking  at  them  now,  and  of  telling 
Susan  that  the  buttons  on  Ella's  dress  had  been  of 
sterling  silver,  "made  right  from  Papa's  mine,"  and 
that  the  little  ship  Kenneth  held  had  cost  twenty-five 
dollars.  All  of  her  conversation  was  boastful,  in  an  in- 
offensive, faded  sort  of  way.  She  told  Susan  about  her 
wedding,  about  her  gown  and  her  mother's  gown,  and 
the  cost  of  her  music,  and  the  number  of  the  musicians. 

Mrs.  Saunders,  Susan  used  to  think,  letting  her 
thoughts  wander  as  the  old  lady  rambled  on,  was  an 
unfortunately  misplaced  person.  She  had  none  of  the 
qualities  of  the  great  lady,  nothing  spiritual  or  mental 
with  which  to  fend  off  the  vacuity  of  old  age.  As  a 
girl,  a  bride,  a  young  matron,  she  had  not  shown  her 
lack  so  pitiably.  But  now,  at  sixty-five,  Mrs.  Saunders 
had  no  character,  no  tastes,  no  opinions  worth  con- 
sidering. She  liked  to  read  the  paper,  she  liked  her 
flowers,  although  she  took  none  of  the  actual  care  of 
them,  and  she  liked  to  listen  to  music;  there  was  a  me- 
chanical piano  in  her  room,  and  Susan  often  heard  the 


246  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

music  downstairs  at  night,  and  pictured  the  old  lady, 
reading  in  bed,  calling  to  Miss  Baker  when  a  record 
approached  its  finish,  and  listening  contentedly  to  selec- 
tions from  "Faust"  and  "Ernani,"  and  the  "Chanson 
des  Alpes."  Mrs.  Saunders  would  have  been  far  hap- 
pier as  a  member  of  the  fairly  well-to-do  middle  class. 
She  would  have  loved  to  shop  with  married  daughters, 
sharply  interrogating  clerks  as  to  the  durability  of 
shoes,  and  the  weight  of  little  underflannels;  she  would 
have  been  a  good  angel  in  the  nurseries,  as  an  unfailing 
authority  when  the  new  baby  came,  or  hushing  the  less 
recent  babies  to  sleep  in  tender  old  arms.  She  would 
have  been  a  judge  of  hot  jellies,  a  critic  of  pastry.  But 
bound  in  this  little  aimless  groove  of  dressmakers' 
calls,  and  card-parties,  she  was  quite  out  of  her  natural 
element.  It  was  not  astonishing  that,  like  Emily,  she 
occasionally  enjoyed  an  illness,  and  dispensed  with  the 
useless  obligation  of  getting  up  and  dressing  herself 
at  all  I 

Invitations,  they  were  really  commands,  to  the 
Browning  dances  were  received  early  in  December; 
Susan,  dating  her  graceful  little  note  of  regret,  was 
really  shocked  to  notice  the  swift  flight  of  the  months. 
December  already!  And  she  had  seemed  to  leave 
Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter  only  last  week.  Susan 
fell  into  a  reverie  over  her  writing,  her  eyes  roving 
absently  over  the  stretch  of  wooded  hills  below  her  win- 
dow. December !  Nearly  a  year  since  Peter  Cole- 
man  had  sent  her  a  circle  of  pearls,  and  she  had  precipi- 
tated the  events  that  had  ended  their  friendship.  It 
was  a  sore  spot  still,  the  memory;  but  Susan,  more  sore 
at  herself  for  letting  him  mislead  her  than  with  him, 
burned  to  reestablish  herself  in  his  eyes  as  a  w®man 
of  dignity  and  reserve,  rather  than  to  take  revenge 
upon  him  for  what  was,  she  knew  now,  as  much  a  part 
of  him  as  his  laughing  eyes  and  his  indomitable  buoy- 
ancy. 

The   room  in  which  she  was  writing  was   warm. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  247 

Furnace  heat  is  not  common  in  California,  but,  with  a 
thousand  other  conveniences,  the  Saunders  home  had 
a  furnace.  There  were  winter  roses,  somewhere  near 
her,  making  the  air  sweet;  the  sunlight  slanted  in 
brightly  across  the  wide  couch  where  Emily  was  lying, 
teasing  Susan  between  casual  glances  at  her  magazine. 
A  particularly  gay  week  had  left  both  girls  feeling  de- 
cidedly unwell.  Emily  complained  of  headache  and 
neuralgia;  Susan  had  breakfasted  on  hot  soda  and 
water,  her  eyes  felt  heavy,  her  skin  hot  and  dry  and 
prickly. 

"We  all  eat  too  much  in  this  house!"  she  said  aloud, 
cheerfully.  "And  we  don't  exercise  enough!"  Emily 
did  not  answer,  merely  smiled,  as  at  a  joke.  The  sub- 
ject of  diet  was  not  popular  with  either  of  the  Misses 
Saunders.  Emily  never  admitted  that  her  physical  mis- 
eries had  anything  to  do  with  her  stomach;  and  Ella, 
whose  bedroom  scales  exasperated  her  afresh  every 
time  she  got  on  them,  while  making  dolorous  allusions 
to  her  own  size  whenever  it  pleased  her  to  do  so,  never 
allowed  anyone  else  the  privilege.  But  even  with  her 
healthy  appetite,  and  splendid  constitution,  Susan  was 
unable  to  eat  as  both  the  sisters  did.  Every  other  day 
she  resolved  sternly  to  diet,  and  frequently  at  night 
she  could  not  sleep  for  indigestion;  but  the  Saunders 
home  was  no  atmosphere  for  Spartan  resolutions,  and 
every  meal-time  saw  Susan's  courage  defeated  afresh. 
She  could  have  remained  away  from  the  table  with  far 
less  effort  than  was  required,  when  a  delicious  dish  was 
placed  before  her,  to  send  it  away  untouched.  There 
were  four  regular  meals  daily  in  the  Saunders  home; 
the  girls  usually  added  a  fifth  when  they  went  down  to 
the  pantries  to  forage  before  going  to  bed;  and  tempt- 
ing little  dishes  of  candy  and  candied  fruits  were  set 
unobtrusively  on  card-tables,  on  desks,  on  the  piano 
where  the  girls  were  amusing  themselves  with  the 
songs  of  the  day. 

It  was  a  comfortable,  care-free  life  they  led,  irre- 
sponsible beyond  any  of  Susan's  wildest  dreams.  She 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

and  Emily  lounged  about  their  bright,  warm  apart- 
ments, these  winter  mornings,  until  nine  o'clock, 
lingered  over  their  breakfast — talking,  talking  and 
talking,  until  the  dining-room  clock  struck  a  silvery, 
sweet  eleven;  and  perhaps  drifted  into  Miss  Ella's 
room  for  more  talk,  or  amused  themselves  with  Chow 
Yew's  pidgin  English,  while  he  filled  vases  in  one  of 
the  pantries.  At  twelve  o'clock  they  went  up  to  dress 
for  the  one  o'clock  luncheon,  an  elaborate  meal  at 
which  Mrs.  Saunders  plaintively  commented  on  the 
sauce  Bechamel,  Ella  reviled  the  cook,  and  Kenneth, 
if  he  was  present,  drank  a  great  deal  of  some  charged 
water  from  a  siphon,  or  perhaps  made  Lizzie  or 
Carrie  nearly  leap  out  of  their  skins  by  a  sudden,  terri- 
fying inquiry  why  Miss  Brown  hadn't  been  served  to 
salad  before  he  was,  or  perhaps  growled  at  Emily  a 
question  as  to  what  the  girls  had  been  talking  about  all 
night  long. 

After  luncheon,  if  Kenneth  did  not  want  the  new 
motor-car,  which  was  supposed  to  be  his  particular  af- 
fectation, the  girls  used  it,  giggling  in  the  tonneau  at 
the  immobility  of  Flornoy,  the  French  chauffeur;  other- 
wise they  drove  behind  the  bays,  and  stopped  at  some 
lovely  home,  standing  back  from  the  road  behind  a 
sweep  of  drive,  and  an  avenue  of  shady  trees,  for 
tea.  Susan  could  take  her  part  in  the  tea-time  gossip 
now,  could  add  her  surmises  and  comment  to  the  gen- 
eral gossip,  and  knew  what  the  society  weeklies  meant 
when  they  used  initials,  or  alluded  to  a  "certain  promi- 
nent debutante  recently  returned  from  an  Eastern 
school." 

As  the  season  ripened,  she  and  Emily  went  to  four 
or  five  luncheons  every  week,  feminine  affairs,  with 
cards  or  matinee  to  follow.  Dinner  invitations  were 
more  rare ;  there  were  men  at  the  dinners,  and  the  risk 
of  boring  a  partner  with  Emily's  uninteresting  little 
personality  was  too  great  to  be  often  taken.  Her 
poor  health  served  both  herself  and  her  friends  as  an 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  249 

excuse.  Ella  went  everywhere,  even  to  the  debutante's 
affairs;  but  Emily  was  too  entirely  self-centered  to  be 
popular. 

She  and  Susan  were  a  great  deal  alone.  They  chat- 
tered and  laughed  together  through  shopping  trips, 
luncheons  at  the  clubs,  matinees,  and  trips  home  on  the 
boat.  They  bought  prizes  for  Ella's  card-parties,  or 
engagement  cups  and  wedding-presents  for  those  for- 
tunate girls  who  claimed  the  center  of  the  social  stage 
now  and  then  with  the  announcement  of  their  personal 
plans.  They  bought  an  endless  variety  of  pretty  things 
for  Emily,  who  prided  herself  on  the  fact  that  she 
could  not  bear  to  have  near  her  anything  old  or  worn 
or  ugly.  A  thousand  little  reminders  came  to  Emily 
wherever  she  went  of  things  without  which  she  could 
not  exist. 

"What  a  darling  chain  that  woman's  wearing;  let's 
go  straight  up  to  Shreve's  and  look  at  chains,"  said 
Emily,  on  the  boat;  or  "White-bait!  Here  it  is  on  this 
menu.  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  for  months !  Do  remind 
Mrs.  Pullet  to  get  some!"  or  "Can't  you  remember 
what  it  was  Isabel  said  that  she  was  going  to  get? 
Don't  you  remember  I  said  I  needed  it,  too?" 

If  Susan  had  purchases  of  her  own  to  make,  Emily 
could  barely  wait  with  patience  until  they  were  com- 
pleted, before  adding: 

"I  think  I'll  have  a  pair  of  slippers,  too.  Something 
a  little  nicer  than  that,  please" ;  or  "That's  going  to 
make  up  into  a  dear  wrapper  for  you,  Sue,"  she  would 
enthusiastically  declare,  "I  ought  to  have  another 
wrapper,  oughtn't  I?  Let's  go  up  to  Chinatown,  and 
see  some  of  the  big  wadded  ones  at  Sing  Fat's.  I  really 
need  one!" 

Just  before  Christmas,  Emily  went  to  the  southern 
part  of  the  state  with  a  visiting  cousin  from  the  East, 
and  Susan  gladly  seized  the  opportunity  for  a  little  visit 
at  home.  She  found  herself  strangely  stirred  when 
she  went  in,  from  the  bright  winter  sunshine,  to  the 


250  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

dingy,  odorous  old  house,  encountering  the  atmosphere 
familiar  to  her  from  babyhood,  and  the  unaltered 
warm  embraces  of  Mary  Lou  and  her  aunt.  Before 
she  had  hung  up  her  hat  and  coat,  she  was  swept  again 
into  the  old  ways,  listening,  while  she  changed  her 
dress,  to  Mary  Lou's  patient  complaints  and  wistful 
questions,  slipping  out  to  the  bakery  just  before  dinner 
to  bring  home  a  great  paper-bag  of  hot  rolls,  and  end- 
ing the  evening,  after  a  little  shopping  expedition  to 
Fillmore  Street,  with  solitaire  at  the  dining-room 
table.  The  shabbiness  and  disorder  and  a  sort  of  ma- 
terial sordidness  were  more  marked  than  ever,  but 
Susan  was  keenly  conscious  of  some  subtle,  touching 
charm,  unnoticed  heretofore,  that  seemed  to  flavor 
the  old  environment  to-night.  They  were  very  pure 
and  loving  and  loyal,  her  aunt  and  cousins,  very  prac- 
tically considerate  and  tender  toward  each  other,  de- 
spite the  flimsy  fabric  of  their  absurd  dreams;  very 
good,  in  the  old-fashioned  sense  of  the  term,  if  not 
very  successful  or  very  clever. 

They  made  much  of  her  coming,  rejoiced  over  her 
and  kissed  her  as  if  she  never  had  even  in  thought 
neglected  them,  and  exulted  innocently  in  the  marvel- 
ous delights  of  her  new  life.  Georgie  was  driven  over 
from  the  Mission  by  her  husband,  the  next  day,  in 
Susan's  honor,  and  carried  the  fat,  loppy  baby  in  for 
so  brief  a  visit  that  it  was  felt  hardly  worth  while  to 
unwrap  and  wrap  up  again  little  Myra  Estelle.  Mrs. 
Lancaster  had  previously,  with  a  burst  of  tears,  in- 
formed Susan  that  Georgie  was  looking  very  badly, 
and  that,  nursing  that  heavy  child,  she  should  have 
been  spared  more  than  she  was  by  the  doctor's  mother 
and  the  old  servant.  But  Susan,  although  finding  the 
young  mother  pale  and  rather  excited,  thought  that 
Georgie  looked  well,  and  admired  with  the  others  her 
heavy,  handsome  new  suit  and  the  over-trimmed  hat 
that  quite  eclipsed  her  small  face.  The  baby  was  un- 
manageable, and  roared  throughout  the  visit,  to 
Georgie's  distress. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  251 

"She  never  cries  this  way  at  home !"  protested  young 
Mrs.  O'Connor. 

"Give  her  some  ninny,"  Mrs.  Lancaster  suggested, 
eagerly,  but  Georgie,  glancing  at  the  street  where  Joe 
was  holding  the  restless  black  horse  in  check,  said 
nervously  that  Joe  didn't  like  it  until  the  right  time. 
She  presently  went  out  to  hand  Myra  to  Susan  while 
she  climbed  into  place,  and  was  followed  by  a  scream 
from  Mrs.  Lancaster,  who  remarked  later  that  seeing 
the  black  horse  start  just  as  Susan  handed  the  child 
up,  she  had  expected  to  see  them  all  dashed  to  pieces. 

"Well,  Susan,  light  of  my  old  eyes,  had  enough  of 
the  rotten  rich?"  asked  William  Oliver,  coming  in  for 
a  later  dinner,  on  the  first  night  of  her  visit,  and  jerk- 
ing her  to  him  for  a  resounding  kiss  before  she  had 
any  idea  of  his  intention. 

"Billy!"  Susan  said,  mildly  scandalized,  her  eyes  on 
her  aunt. 

"Well,  well,  what's  all  this!"  Mrs.  Lancaster  re- 
marked, without  alarm.  William,  shaking  out  his 
napkin,  drawing  his  chair  up  to  the  table,  and  falling 
upon  his  dinner  with  vigor,  demanded: 

"Come  on,  now!   Tell  us  all,  all!" 

But  Susan,  who  had  been  chattering  fast  enough 
from  the  moment  of  her  arrival,  could  not  seem  to  get 
started  again.  It  was  indeed  a  little  difficult  to  con- 
tinue an  enthusiastic  conversation,  unaffected  by  his 
running  fire  of  comment.  For  in  these  days  he  was 
drifting  rapidly  toward  a  sort  of  altruistic  socialism, 
and  so  listened  to  her  recital  with  sardonic  smiles, 
snorts  of  scorn,  and  caustic  annotations. 

"The  Carters — ha !  That  whole  bunch  ought  to  be 
hanged,"  Billy  remarked.  "All  their  money  comes 
from  the  rents  of  bad  houses,  and — let  me  tell  you 
something,  when  there  was  a  movement  made  to  buy 
up  that  Jackson  Street  block,  and  turn  it  into  a  park, 
it  was  old  Carter,  yes,  and  his  wife,  too,  who  refused 
to  put  a  price  on  their  property!" 

"Oh,  Billy,  you  don't  know  that!" 


252  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"I  don't?  All  right,  maybe  I  don't,"  Mr.  Oliver 
returned  growlingly  to  his  meal,  only  to  break  out  a 
moment  later,  "The  Kirkwoods!  Yes;  that's  a  rare 
old  bunch!  They're  still  holding  the  city  to  the  fran- 
chise they  swindled  the  Government  out  of,  right  after 
the  Civil  War !  Every  time  you  pay  taxes ' 

"I  don't  pay  taxes!"  Susan  interrupted  frivolously, 
and  resumed  her  glowing  account.  Billy  made  no 
further  contribution  to  the  conversation  until  he  asked 
some  moments  later,  "Does  old  Brock  ever  tell  you 
about  his  factories,  while  he's  taking  you  around  his 
orchid-house?  There's  a  man  a  week  killed  there,  and 
the  foremen  tell  the  girls  when  they  hire  them  that 
they  aren't  expected  to  take  care  of  themselves  on  the 
wages  they  get!" 

But  the  night  before  her  return  to  San  Rafael,  Mr. 
Oliver,  in  his  nicest  mood,  took  Susan  to  the  Orpheum, 
and  they  had  fried  oysters  and  coffee  in  a  little  Fill- 
more  Street  restaurant  afterward,  Billy  admitting  with 
graceful  frankness  that  funds  were  rather  low,  and 
Susan  really  eager  for  the  old  experience  and  the  old 
sensations.  Susan  liked  the  brotherly,  clumsy  way  in 
which  he  tried  to  ascertain,  as  they  sat  loitering  and 
talking  over  the  little  meal,  just  how  much  of  her 
thoughts  still  went  to  Peter  Coleman,  and  laughed  out- 
right, as  soon  as  she  detected  his  purpose,  as  only  an 
absolutely  heart-free  girl  could  laugh,  and  laid  her 
hand  over  his  for  a  little  appreciative  squeeze  before 
they  dismissed  the  subject.  After  that  he  told  her  of 
some  of  his  own  troubles,  the  great  burden  of  the 
laboring  classes  that  he  felt  rested  on  his  particular 
back,  and  his  voice  rose  and  he  pounded  the  table  as 
he  talked  of  the  other  countries  of  the  world,  where 
even  greater  outrages,  or  where  experimental  solutions 
were  in  existence.  Susan  brought  the  conversation  to 
Josephine  Carroll,  and  watched  his  whole  face  grow 
tender,  and  heard  his  voice  soften,  as  they  spoke  of 
her. 

"No;  but  is  it  really  and  truly  serious  this  time, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  253- 

Bill?"  she  asked,  with  that  little  thrill  of  pain  that  all 
good  sisters  know  when  the  news  comes. 

"Serious?     Gosh!"  said  the  lover,  simply. 

"Engaged?" 

"No-o.  I  couldn't  very  well.  I'm  in  so  deep  at  the 
works  that  I  may  get  fired  any  minute.  More  than 
that,  the  boys  generally  want  me  to  act  as  spokesman, 
and  so  I'm  a  sort  of  marked  card,  and  I  mightn't  get  in 
anywhere  else,  very  easily.  And  I  couldn't  ask  Jo  to- 
go  with  me  to  some  Eastern  factory  or  foundry  town, 
without  being  pretty  sure  of  a  job.  No;  things  are 
just  drifting." 

"Well,  but  Bill,"  Susan  said  anxiously,  "somebody 
else  will  step  in  if  you  don't!  Jo's  such  a  beauty " 

He  turned  to  her  almost  with  a  snarl. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?  Steal?"  he 
asked  angrily.  And  then  softening  suddenly  he  added  r 
"She's  young, — the  little  queen  of  queens!" 

"And  yet  you  say  you  don't  want  money,"  Susan 
said,  drily,  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

The  next  day  she  went  back  to  Emily,  and  again  the 
lazy,  comfortable  days  began  to  slip  by,  one  just  like 
the  other.  At  Christmas-time  Susan  was  deluged  with 
gifts,  the  holidays  were  an  endless  chain  of  good  times, 
the  house  sweet  with  violets,  and  always  full  of  guests 
and  callers;  girls  in  furs  who  munched  candy  as  they 
chattered,  and  young  men  who  laughed  and  shouted 
around  the  punch  bowl.  Susan  and  Emily  were  caught 
in  a  gay  current  that  streamed  to  the  club,  to  talk  and 
drink  eggnog  before  blazing  logs,  and  streamed  to  one 
handsome  home  after  another,  to  talk  and  drink  egg- 
nog  before  other  fires,  and  to  be  shown  and  admire 
beautiful  and  expensive  presents.  They  bundled  in 
and  out  of  carriages  and  motors,  laughing  as  they 
crowded  in,  and  sitting  on  each  other's  laps,  and  carry- 
ing a  chorus  of  chatter  2nd  laughter  everywhere. 
Susan  would  find  herself,  the  inevitable  glass  in  hand, 
talking  hard  to  some  little  silk-clad  old  lady  in  some 


254i  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

softly  lighted  lovely  drawing-room,  to  be  whisked  away 
to  some  other  drawing-room,  and  to  another  fireside, 
where  perhaps  there  was  a  stocky,  bashful  girl  of  four- 
teen to  amuse,  or  somebody's  grandfather  to  interest 
and  smile  upon. 

Everywhere  were  holly  wreaths  and  lights,  soft  car- 
pets, fires  and  rich  gowns,  and  everywhere  the  same 
display  of  gold  picture  frames  and  silver  plates,  rock 
crystal  bowls,  rugs  and  cameras  and  mahogany  desks 
and  tables,  furs  and  jeweled  chains  and  rings.  Every- 
where were  candies  from  all  over  the  world,  and  fruit- 
cake from  London,  and  marrons  and  sticky  candied 
fruit,  and  everywhere  unobtrusive  maids  were  silently 
offering  trays  covered  with  small  glasses. 

Susan  was  frankly  sick  when  the  new  year  began, 
and  Emily  had  several  heart  and  nerve  attacks,  and 
was  very  difficult  to  amuse.  But  both  girls  agreed  that 
the  holidays  had  been  the  "time  of  their  lives." 

It  was  felt  by  the  Saunders  family  that  Susan  had 
shown  a  very  becoming  spirit  in  the  matter  of  the 
Browning  dances.  Ella,  who  had  at  first  slightly  re- 
sented the  fact  that  "Brownie"  had  chosen  to  honor 
Emily's  paid  companion  in  so  signal  a  manner,  had 
gradually  shifted  to  the  opinion  that,  in  doing  so,  he 
had  no  more  than  confirmed  the  family's  opinion  of 
Susan  Brown,  after  all,  and  shown  a  very  decent  dis- 
crimination. 

"No  earthly  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have  ac- 
cepted!" said  Ella. 

"Oh,  Duchess,"  said  Susan,  who  sometimes  pleased 
her  with  this  name,  "fancy  the  talk!" 

"Well,"  drawled  Ella,  resuming  her  perusal  of  a 
scandalous  weekly,  "I  don't  know  that  I'm  afraid  of 
talk,  myself!" 

"At  the  same  time,  El,"  Emily  contributed,  eagerly, 
"you  know  what  a  fuss  they  made  when  Vera  Brock 
brought  that  Miss  De  Foe,  of  New  York!" 

Ella  gave  her  little  sister  a  very  keen  look. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  255 

"Vera  Brock?"  she  said,  dreamily,  with  politely 
elevated  brows. 

"Well,  of  course,  I  don't  take  the  Brocks  seri- 
ously  "  Emily  began,  reddening. 

"Well,  I  should  hope  you  wouldn't,  Baby!"  an- 
swered the  older  sister,  promptly  and  forcibly.  "Don't 
make  an  utter  fool  of  yourself !" 

Emily  retired  into  an  enraged  silence,  and  a  day  or 
two  later,  Ella,  on  a  Sunday  morning  late  in  February, 
announced  that  she  was  going  to  chaperone  both  the 
girls  to  the  Browning  dance  on  the  following  Friday 
night. 

Susan  was  thrown  into  a  most  delightful  flutter, 
longing  desperately  to  go,  but  chilled  with  nervousness 
whenever  she  seriously  thought  of  it.  She  lay  awake 
every  night  anxiously  computing  the  number  of  her  pos- 
sible partners,  and  came  down  to  breakfast  every 
morning  cold  with  the  resolution  that  she  would  make 
a  great  mistake  in  exposing  herself  to  possible  snub- 
bing and  neglect.  She  thought  of  nothing  but  the 
Browning,  listened  eagerly  to  what  the  other  girls  said 
of  it,  her  heart  sinking  when  Louise  Chickering  ob- 
served that  there  never  were  men  enough  at  the 
Brownings,  and  rising  again  when  Alice  Chauncey 
hardily  observed  that,  if  a  girl  was  a  good  dancer,  that 
was  all  that  mattered,  she  couldn't  help  having  a  good 
time !  Susan  knew  she  danced  well 

However,  Emily  succumbed  on  Thursday  to  a  heart 
attack.  The  whole  household  went  through  its  usual 
excitement,  the  doctor  came,  the  nurse  was  hurriedly 
summoned,  Susan  removed  all  the  smaller  articles  from 
Emily's  room,  and  replaced  the  bed's  flowery  cover 
with  a  sheet,  the  invalid  liking  the  hospital  aspect. 
Susan  was  not  very  much  amazed  at  the  suddenness  of 
this  affliction;  Emily  had  been  notably  lacking  in  en- 
thusiasm about  the  dance,  and  on  Wednesday  after- 
noon, Ella  having  issued  the  casual  command,  "See 
if  you  can't  get  a  man  or  two  to  dine  with  us  at  the 
hotel  before  the  dance,  Emily;  then  you  girls  will  be 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

sure  of  some  partners,  anyway!"  Emily  had  spent  a 
discouraging  hour  at  the  telephone. 

"Hello,  George!"  Susan  had  heard  her  say  gaily. 
"This  is  Emily  Saunders.  George,  I  rang  up  because 
— you  know  the  Browning  is  Friday  night,  and  Ella's 
giving  me  a  little  dinner  at  the  Palace  before  it — and  I 

wondered — we're  just  getting  it  up  hurriedly "  An 

interval  of  silence  on  Emily's  part  would  follow,  then 
she  would  resume,  eagerly,  "Oh,  certainly!  I'm 
sorry,  but  of  course  I  understand.  Yes,  indeed;  I'll 

see  you  Friday  night "  and  the  conversation  would 

be  ended. 

And,  after  a  moment  of  silence,  she  would  call  an- 
other number,  and  go  through  the  little  conversation 
again.  Susan,  filled  with  apprehensions  regarding  her 
own  partners,  could  not  blame  Emily  for  the  heart 
attack,  and  felt  a  little  vague  relief  on  her  own  account. 
Better  sure  at  home  than  sorry  in  the  dreadful  bril- 
liance of  a  Browning  ball! 

"I'm  afraid  this  means  no  dance  I"  murmured  Emily, 
apologetically. 

"As  if  I  cared,  Emmy  Lou!"  Susan  reassured  her 
cheerfully. 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you  would  have  had  a  good 
time,  Sue!"  Emily  said,  and  the  topic  of  the  dance  was 
presumably  exhausted. 

But  when  Ella  got  home,  the  next  morning,  she 
reopened  the  question  with  some  heat.  Emily  could 
do  exactly  as  Emily  pleased,  declared  Ella,  but  Susan 
Brown  should  and  would  come  to  the  last  Browning. 

"Oh,  please,  Duchess !"  Susan  besought  her. 

"Very  well,  Sue,  if  you  don't,  I'll  make  that  kid  so 
sorry  she  ever " 

"Oh,  please ! And  beside "  said  Susan,  "I 

haven't  anything  to  wear!  So  that  does  settle  it!" 

"What  were  you  going  to  wear?"  demanded  Ella> 
scowling. 

"Em  said  she'd  lend  me  her  white  lace." 

"Well,  that's  all  right !    Gerda'll  fix  it  for  you " 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  257 

"But  Emily  sent  it  back  to  Madame  Leonard  yes- 
terday afternoon.  She  wanted  the  sash  changed," 
Susan  hastily  explained. 

"Well,  she's  got  other  gowns,"  Ella  said,  with  a 
dangerous  glint  in  her  eyes.  "What  about  that  thing 
with  the  Persian  embroidery?  What  about  the  net  one 
she  wore  to  Isabel's?" 

"The  net  one's  really  gone  to  pieces,  Duchess.  It 
was  a  flimsy  sort  of  thing,  anyway.  And  the  Persian 
one  she's  only  had  on  twice.  When  we  were  talking 
about  it  Monday  she  said  she'd  rather  I  didn't " 

"Oh,  she  did?  D'ye  hear  that,  Mama?"  Ella  asked, 
holding  herself  in  check.  "And  what  about  the 
chiffon?" 

"Well,  Ella,  she  telephoned  Madame  this  morning 
not  to  hurry  with  that,  because  she  wasn't  going  to  the 
dance." 

"Was  she  going  to  wear  it?" 

"Well,  no.  But  she  telephoned  Madame  just  the 
same — I  don't  know  why  she  did,"  Susan  smiled.  "But 
what's  the  difference?"  she  ended  cheerfully. 

"Quite  a  Flora  McFlimsey!"  said  Mrs.  Saunders, 
with  her  nervous,  shrill  little  laugh,  adding  eagerly  to 
the  now  thoroughly  aroused  Ella.  "You  know  Baby 
doesn't  really  go  about  much,  Totty;  she  hasn't  as 
many  gowns  as  you,  dear!" 

"Now,  look  here,  Mama,"  Ella  said,  levelly,  "if 
we  can  manage  to  get  Susan  something  to  wear,  well 
and  good;  but — if  that  rotten,  selfish,  nasty  kid  has 
really  spoiled  this  whole  thing,  she'll  be  sorry !  That's 
all.  I'd  try  to  get  a  dress  in  town,  if  it  wasn't  so  late ! 
As  it  is  I'll  telephone  Madame  about  the  Persian " 

"Oh,  honestly,  I  couldn't!  If  Emily  didn't  want 
me  to  !"  Susan  began,  scarlet-cheeked. 

"I  think  you're  all  in  a  conspiracy  to  drive  me 
crazy!"  Ella  said  angrily.  "Emily  shall  ask  you  just 
as  nicely  as  she  knows  how,  to  wear " 

"Totty,  she's  sick!"  pleaded  Emily's  mother. 

"Sick!    She's  chock-full  of  poison  because  she  never 


258  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

knows  when  to  stop  eating,"  said  Kenneth,  with  frater- 
nal gallantry.  He  returned  to  his  own  thoughts,  pres- 
ently adding,  "Why  don't  you  borrow  a  dress  from 
Isabel?" 

"Isabel?"  Ella  considered  it,  brightened.  "Isabel 
Wallace,"  she  said,  in  sudden  approval.  "That's 
exactly  what  I'll  do!"  And  she  swept  magnificently  to 
the  little  telephone  niche  near  the  dining-room  door. 
"Isabel,"  said  she,  a  moment  later,  "this  is  Mike- 
So  Susan  went  to  the  dance.  Miss  Isabel  Wallace 
sent  over  a  great  box  of  gowns  from  which  she  might 
choose  the  most  effective,  and  Emily,  with  a  sort  of 
timid  sullenness,  urged  her  to  go.  Ella  and  her  charge 
went  into  town  in  the  afternoon,  and  loitered  into  the 
club  for  tea.  Susan,  whose  color  was  already  burning 
high,  and  whose  eyes  were  dancing,  fretted  inwardly 
at  Ella's  leisurely  enjoyment  of  a  second  and  a  third 
sup.  It  was  nearly  six  o'clock,  it  was  after  six!  Ella 
seemed  willing  to  delay  indefinitely,  waiting  on  the 
stairs  of  the  club  for  a  long  chat  with  a  passing  woman, 
and  lingering  with  various  friends  in  the  foyer  of  the 
great  hotel. 

But  finally  they  were  in  the  big  bedrooms,  with 
Clemence,  Ella's  maid,  in  eager  and  interested  attend- 
ance. Clemence  had  laid  Susan's  delicious  frills  and 
laces  out  upon  the  bed;  Susan's  little  wrapper  was 
waiting  her;  there  was  nothing  to  do  now  but  plunge 
into  the  joy  of  dressing.  A  large,  placid  person  known 
to  Susan  vaguely  as  the  Mrs.  Keith,  who  had  been  twice 
divorced,  had  the  room  next  to  Ella,  and  pretty  Mary 
Peacock,  her  daughter,  shared  Susan's  room.  The 
older  ladies,  assuming  loose  wrappers,  sat  gossiping 
over  cocktails  and  smoking  cigarettes,  and  Mary  and 
Susan  seized  the  opportunity  to  monopolize  Clemence. 
Clemence  arranged  Susan's  hair,  pulling,  twisting,  fling- 
ing hot  masses  over  the  girl's  face,  inserting  pins  firmly, 
loosening  strands  with  her  hard  little  French  fingers. 
Susan  had  only  occasional  blinded  glimpses  of  her  face, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  259 

one  temple  bare  and  bald,  the  other  eclipsed  like  a 
gipsy's. 

"Look  here,  Clemence,  if  I  don't  like  it,  out  it 
comes!"  she  said. 

"Mais,  c\2rtainement,  c.a  va  sans  dire!"  Clemence 
agreed  serenely.  Mary  Peacock,  full  of  amused  in- 
terest, watched  as  she  rubbed  her  face  and  throat  with 
cold  cream. 

"I  wish  I  had  your  neck  and  shoulders,  Miss 
Brown,"  said  Miss  Peacock.  "I  get  so  sick  of  high- 
necked  gowns  that  I'd  almost  rather  stay  home!" 

"Why,  you're  fatter  than  I  am!"  Susan  exclaimed. 
"You've  got  lovely  shoulders!" 

"Yes,  darling!"  Mary  said,  gushingly.  "And  I've 
got  the  sort  of  blood  that  breaks  out,  in  a  hot  room," 
she  added  after  a  moment,  "don't  look  so  scared,  it's 
nothing  serious!  But  I  daren't  ever  take  the  risk  of 
wearing  a  low  gown!" 

"But  how  did  you  get  it?"  ejaculated  Susan.  "Are 
you  taking  something  for  it?" 

"No,  love,"  Mary  continued,  in  the  same,  amused, 
ironic  strain,  "because  I've  been  traveling  about,  half 
my  life,  to  get  it  cured,  Germany  and  France,  every- 
where! And  there  ain't  no  such  animal!  Isn't  it 
lovely?" 

"But  how  did  you  get  it?"  Susan  innocently  per- 
sisted. Mary  gave  her  a  look  half  exasperated  and 
half  warning;  but,  when  Clemence  had  stepped  into 
the  next  room  for  a  moment,  she  said: 

"Don't  be  an  utter  fool !  Where  do  you  think  I  got 
it?  f 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  she  went  on  pleasantly,  as 
Clemence  came  back,  "that  my  father's  married  again, 
you  know,  to  the  sweetest  little  thing  you  ever  saw.  An 
only  girl,  with  four  or  five  big  brothers,  and  her  father 
a  minister!  Well " 

"Voici !"  exclaimed  the  maid.  And  Susan  faced  her- 
self in  the  mirror,  and  could  not  resist  a  shamed,  admir- 
•  ing  smile.  But  if  the  smooth  rolls  and  the  cunning 


260  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

• 

sweeps  and  twists  of  bright  hair  made  her  prettier  than 
usual,  Susan  was  hardly  recognizable  when  the  maid 
touched  lips  and  cheeks  with  color  and  eyebrows  with 
her  clever  pencil.  She  had  thought  her  eyes  bright 
before;  now  they  had  a  starry  glitter  that  even  their 
owner  thought  effective;  her  cheeks  glowed  softly— 

"Here,  stop  flirting  with  yourself,  and  put  on  your 
gown,  it's  after  eight!"  Mary  said,  and  Clemence 
slipped  the  fragrant  beauty  of  silk  and  lace  over  Susan's 
head,  and  knelt  down  to  hook  it,  and  pushed  it  down 
over  the  hips,  and  tied  the  little  cord  that  held  the  low 
bodice  so  charmingly  in  place.  Clemence  said  nothing 
when  she  had  finished,  nor  did  Mary,  nor  did  Ella 
when  they  presently  joined  Ella  to  go  downstairs,  but 
Susan  was  satisfied.  It  is  an  unfortunate  girl  indeed 
who  does  not  think  herself  a  beauty  for  one  night  at 
least  in  her  life;  Susan  thought  herself  beautiful  to- 
night. 

They  joined  the  men  in  the  Lounge,  and  Susan  had 
lo  go  out  to  dinner,  if  not  quite  uon  a  man's  arm,"  as 
in  her  old  favorite  books,  at  least  with  her  own  part- 
ner, feeling  very  awkward,  and  conscious  of  shoulders 
and  hips  as  she  did  so.  But  she  presently  felt  the  in- 
fluence of  the  lights  and  music,  and  of  the  heating  food 
and  wine,  and  talked  and  laughed  quite  at  her  ease, 
feeling  delightfully  like  a  great  lady  and  a  great  beauty. 
Her  dinner  partner  presently  asked  her  for  the  "sec- 
ond" and  the  supper  dance,  and  Susan,  hoping  that 
she  concealed  indecent  rapture,  gladly  consented.  By 
just  so  much  was  she  relieved  of  the  evening's  awful 
responsibility.  She  did  not  particularly  admire  this 
nice,  fat  young  man,  but  to  be  saved  from  visible  un- 
popularity, she  would  gladly  have  danced  with  the 
waiter. 

It  was  nearer  eleven  than  ten  o'clock  when  they 
sauntered  through  various  wide  hallways  to  the  palm- 
decorated  flight  of  stairs  that  led  down  to  the  ballroom. 
Susan  gave  one  dismayed  glance  at  the  brilliant  sweep 
of  floor  as  they  descended. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  261 

"They're  dancing!"  she  ejaculated, — late,  and  a 
stranger,  what  chance  had  she  ! 

"Gosh,  you're  crazy  about  it,  aren't  you?"  grinned 
her  partner,  Mr.  Teddy  Carpenter.  "Don't  you  care, 
they've  just  begun.  Want  to  finish  this  with  me?" 

But  Susan  was  greeting  the  host,  who  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  a  fat,  good-natured  little  man,  beam- 
ing at  everyone  out  of  small  twinkling  blue  eyes,  and 
shaking  hands  with  the  debutantes  while  he  spoke  to 
their  mothers  over  their  shoulders. 

"Hello,  Brownie!"  Ella  said,  affectionately. 
"Where's  everybody?" 

Mr.  Browning  flung  his  fat  little  arms  in  the  air. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  in  humorous  distress.  "The 
girls  appear  to  be  holding  a  meeting  over  there  in  the 
dressing-room,  and  the  men  are  in  the  smoker !  I'm 

g)ing  to  round  'em  up !  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Brown? 
ad,  you  look  so  like  your  aunt, — and  she  was  a 
beauty,  Ella ! — that  I  could  kiss  you  for  it,  as  I  did  her 
once!" 

"My  aunt  has  black  hair  and  brown  eyes,  Miss  Ella, 
and  weighs  one  hundred  and  ninety  pounds  I"  twinkled 
Susan. 

"Kiss  her  again  for  that,  Brownie,  and  introduce 
me,"  said  a  tall,  young  man  at  the  host's  side  easily. 
"I'm  going  to  have  this,  aren't  I,  Miss  Brown?  Come 
on,  they're  just  beginning " 

Off  went  Susan,  swept  deliciously  into  the  tide  of 
enchanting  music  and  motion.  She  wasn't  expected  to 
talk,  she  had  no  time  to  worry,  she  could  dance  well, 
and  she  did. 

Kenneth  Saunders  came  up  in  the  pause  before  the 
dance  was  encored,  and  asked  for  the  "next  but  one," — 
there  were  no  cards  at  the  Brownings;  all  over  the 
hall  girls  were  nodding  over  their  partners'  shoulders, 
in  answer  to  questions,  "Next,  Louise?"  "Next  waltz 
— one  after  that,  then?"  "I'm  next,  remember!' 

Kenneth  brought  a  bashful  blonde  youth  with  him, 
who  instantly  claimed  the  next  dance.  He  did  not 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

speak  to  Susan  again  until  it  was  over,  when,  remarking 
simply,  "God,  that  was  life!"  he  asked  for  the  third 
ensuing,  and  surrendered  Susan  to  some  dark  youth  un- 
known, who  said,  "Ours?  Now,  don't  say  no,  for 
there's  suicide  in  my  blood,  girl,  and  I'm  a  man  of 
few  words!" 

"I  am  honestly  all  mixed  up!"  Susan  laughed.  "I 
think  this  is  promised " 

It  didn't  appear  to  matter.  The  dark  young  man 
took  the  next  two,  and  Susan  found  herself  in  the  en- 
chanting position  of  a  person  reproached  by  dis- 
appointed partners.  Perhaps  there  were  disappointed 
and  unpopular  girls  at  the  dance,  perhaps  there  was 
heart-burning  and  disappointment  and  jealousy;  she 
saw  none  of  it.  She  was  passed  from  hand  to  hahd, 
complimented,  flirted  with,  led  into  the  little  curtained 
niches  where  she  could  be  told  with  proper  gravity  of 
the  feelings  her  wit  and  beauty  awakened  in  various 
masculine  hearts.  By  twelve  o'clock  Susan  wished  that 
the  ball  would  last  a  week,  she  was  borne  along  like  a 
feather  on  its  glittering  and  golden  surface. 

Ella  was  by  this  time  passionately  playing  the  new 
and  fascinating  game  of  bridge  whist,  in  a  nearby  room, 
but  Browning  was  still  busy,  and  presently  he  came 
across  the  floor  to  Susan,  and  asked  her  for  a  dance — 
an  honor  for  which  she  was  entirely  unprepared,  for  he 
seldom  danced,  and  one  that  she  was  quick  enough  to 
accept  at  once. 

"Perhaps  you've  promised  the  next?"  said  Brown- 
ing. 

"If  I  have,"  said  the  confident  Susan,  "I  hereby  call 
it  off." 

/'Well,"  he  said  smilingly,  pleased.  And  although 
he  did  not  finish  the  dance,  and  they  presently  sat  down 
together,  she  knew  that  it  had  been  the  evening's  most 
important  event. 

"There's  a  man  coming  over  from  the  club,  later," 
said  Mr.  Browning,  "he's  a  wonderful  fellow!  Writer, 
and  a  sort  of  cousin  of  Ella  Saunders  by  the  way, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  263 

or  else  his  wife  is.  He's  just  on  from  New  York, 
and  for  a  sort  of  rest,  and  he  may  go  on  to  Japan 
for  his  next  novel.  Very  remarkable  fellow!" 

"A  writer?"  Susan  looked  interested. 

"Yes,  you  know  him,  of  course.  Bocqueraz — that's 
who  it  is!" 

"Not  Stephen  Graham  Bocqueraz!"  ejaculated 
Susan,  round-eyed. 

"Yes — yes!"  Mr.  Browning  liked  her  enthusiasm. 

"But  is  he  here?"  Susan  asked,  almost  reverently. 
"Why,  I'm  perfectly  crazy  about  his  books!"  she 
confided.  "Why — why — he's  about  the  biggest  there 
is!" 

"Yes,  he  writes  good  stuff,"  the  man  agreed.  "Well, 
now,  don't  you  miss  meeting  him!  He'll  be  here 
directly,"  his  eyes  roved  to  the  stairway,  a  few  feet 
from  where  they  were  sitting.  "Here  he  is  now!" 
said  he.  "Come  now,  Miss  Brown " 

"Oh,  honestly!  I'm  scared — I  don't  know  what  to 
say!"  Susan  said  in  a  panic.  But  Browning's  fat  little 
hand  was  firmly  gripped  over  hers  and  she  went  with 
him  to  meet  the  two  or  three  men  who  were  chatting 
together  as  they  came  slowly,  composedly,  into  the 
ball-room. 


CHAPTER  III 

FROM  among  them  she  could  instantly  pick  the  writer, 
even  though  all  three  were  strangers,  and  although, 
from  the  pictures  she  had  seen  of  him,  she  had  always 
fancied  that  Stephen  Bocqueraz  was  a  large,  athletic 
type  of  man,  instead  of  the  erect  and  square-built  gen- 
tleman who  walked  between  the  other  two  taller  men. 
He  was  below  the  average  height,  certainly,  dark,  clean- 
shaven, bright-eyed,  with  a  thin-lipped,  wide,  and  most 
expressive  mouth,  and  sleek  hair  so  black  as  to  make 
his  evening  dress  seem  another  color.  He  was  dressed 
with  exquisite  precision,  and  with  one  hand  he  con- 
stantly adjusted  and  played  with  the  round  black- 
rimmed  glasses  that  hung  by  a  silk  ribbon  about  his 
neck.  Susan  knew  him,  at  this  time,  to  be  about  forty- 
five,  perhaps  a  little  less.  xlf  her  very  first  impression 
was  that  he  was  both  affected  and  well  aware  of  his  at- 
tractiveness, her  second  conceded  that  here  was  a  mar 
who  could  make  any  affectation  charming,  and  not  the 
less  attractive  because  he  knew  his  value. 

"And  what  do  I  do,  Mr.  Br-r-rowning,"  asked  Mr. 
Bocqueraz  with  pleasant  precision,  "when  I  wish  to 
monopolize  the  company  of  a  very  charming  young 
lady,  at  a  dance,  and  yet,  not  dancing,  cannot  ask  her 
to  be  my  partner?" 

"The  next  is  the  supper  dance,"  suggested  Susan, 
dimpling,  "if  it  isn't  too  bold  to  mention  it!" 

He  flashed  her  an  appreciative  look,  the  first  they 
had  really  exch?nged. 

"Supper  it  is,"  he  said  gravely,  offering  her  his  arm. 
But  Browning  delayed  him  for  a  few  introductions 
first;  and  Susan  stood  watching  him,  and  thinking  him 

264 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  265 

very  distinguished,  and  that  to  study  a  really  great 
man,  so  pleasantly  at  her  ease,  was  very  thrilling. 
Presently  he  turned  to  her  again,  and  they  went  in  to 
supper;  to  Susan  it  was  all  like  an  exciting  dream. 
They  chose  a  little  table  in  the  shallow  angle  of  a 
closed  doorway,  and  watched  the  confusion  all  about 
them;  and  Susan,  warmed  by  the  appreciative  eyes  so 
near  her,  found  herself  talking  quite  naturally,  and 
more  than  once  was  rewarded  by  the  writer's  unex- 
pected laughter.  She  asked  him  if  Mrs.  Bocqueraz  and 
his  daughter  were  with  him,  and  he  said  no,  not  on 
this  particular  trip. 

"Julie  and  her  mother  are  in  Europe,"  he  said,  with 
just  a  suggestion  of  his  Spanish  grandfather  in  his 
clean-clipped  speech.  "Julie  left  Miss  Bence's  School 
at  seventeen,  had  a  coming-out  party  in  our  city  house 
the  following  winter.  Now  it  seems  Europe  is  the 
thing.  Mrs.  Bocqueraz  likes  to  do  things  systemati- 
cally, and  she  told  me,  before  Julie  was  out  of  the 
nursery,  that  she  thought  it  was  very  nice  for  a  girl  to 
marry  in  her  second  winter  in  society,  after  a  European 
trip.  I  have  no  doubt  my  daughter  will  announce  her 
engagement  upon  her  return." 

"To  whom?"  said  Susan,  laughing  at  his  precise,  re- 
signed tone. 

"That  I  don't  know,"  said  Stephen  Bocqueraz,  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "nor  does  Julie,  I  fancy.  But 
undoubtedly  her  mother  does  1" 

"Here  is  somebody  coming  over  for  a  dance,  I  sup- 
pose 1"  he  said  after  a  few  moments,  and  Susan  was 
flattered  by  the  little  hint  of  regret  in  his  tone.  But 
the  newcomer  was  Peter  Coleman,  and  the  emotion 
of  meeting  him  drove  every  other  thought  out  of  her 
head.  She  did  not  rise,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand; 
the  color  flooded  her  face. 

"Susan,  you  little  turkey-buzzard "  It  was  the 

old  Peter! — "where've  you  been  all  evening?  The 
next  for  mel" 

"Mr.  Bocqueraz,  Mr.  Coleman,"  Susan  said,  with 


266  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

composure,  "Peter,  Mr.  Stephen  Graham  Bocqueraz." 

Even  to  Peter  the  name  meant  something. 

"Why,  Susan,  you  little  grab-all!"  he  accused  her 
vivaciously.  "How  dare  you  monopolize  a  man  like 
Mr.  Bocqueraz  for  the  whole  supper  dance !  I'll  bet 
some  of  those  women  are  ready  to  tear  your  eyes 
put!" 

"I've  been  doing  the  monopolizing,"  Mr.  Bocqueraz 
said,  turning  a  rather  serious  look  from  Peter,  to  smile 
with  sudden  brightness  at  Susan.  "When  I  find  a 
young  woman  at  whose  christening  all  the  fairies  came 
to  dance,"  he  added,  "I  always  do  all  the  monopolizing 
I  can!  However,  if  you  have  a  prior  claim " 

"But  he  hasn't!"  Susan  said,  smilingly.  "I'm  en- 
gaged ten  deep,"  she  added  pleasantly  to  Peter.  "Hon- 
estly, I  haven't  half  a  dance  left!  I  stole  this." 

"Why,  I  won't  stand  for  it,"  Peter  said,  turning  red. 

"Come,  it  seems  to  me  Mr.  Coleman  deserves  some- 
thing!" Stephen  Bocqueraz  smiled.  And  indeed  Peter 
looked  bigger  and  happier  and  handsomer  than  ever. 

"Not  from  me,"  Susan  persisted,  quietly  pleasant. 
Peter  stood  for  a  moment  or  two,  not  quite  ready  to 
laugh,  not  willing  to  go  away.  Susan  busied  herself 
with  her  salad,  stared  dreamily  across  the  room.  And 
presently  he  departed  after  exchanging  a  few  common- 
places with  Bocqueraz. 

"And  what's  the  significance  of  all  that?"  asked  the 
author  when  they  were  alone  again. 

Susan  had  been  wishing  to  make  some  sort  of  defi- 
nite impression  upon  Mr.  Stephen  Graham  Bocqueraz; 
wishing  to  remain  in  his  mind  as  separated  from  the 
other  women  he  had  met  to-night.  Suddenly  she  saw 
this  as  her  chance,  and  she  took  him  somewhat  into 
her  confidence.  She  told  him  of  her  old  office  position, 
and  of  her  aunt,  and  of  Peter,  and  that  she  was  now 
Emily  Saunders'  paid  companion,  and  here  only  as  a 
sort  of  Cinderella. 

Never  did  any  girl,  flushing,  dimpling,  shrugging  her 
shoulders  over  such  a  recital,  have  a  more  apprecia- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  267 

tive  listener.  Stephen  Bocqueraz's  sympathetic  look 
met  hers  whenever  she  looked  up;  he  nodded,  agreed, 
frowned  thoughtfully  or  laughed  outright.  They  sat 
through  the  next  dance,  and  through  half  the  next, 
hidden  in  one  of  the  many  diminutive  "parlors"  that 
surrounded  the  ball-room,  and  when  Susan  was  sur- 
rendered to  an  outraged  partner  she  felt  that  she  and 
the  great  man  were  fairly  started  toward  a  real  friend- 
ship, and  that  these  attractive  boys  she  was  dancing 
with  were  really  very  young,  after  all. 

"Remember  Stephen  Bocqueraz  that  Brownie  intro- 
duced to  you  just  before  supper?"  asked  Ella,  as  they 
went  home,  yawning,  sleepy  and  headachy,  the  next 
day.  Ella  had  been  playing  cards  through  the  supper 
hour. 

"Perfectly!"  Susan  answered,  flushing  and  smiling. 

"You  must  have  made  a  hit,"  Ella  remarked,  "be- 
cause— I'm  giving  him  a  big  dinner  on  Tuesday,  at 
the  Palace — and  when  I  talked  to  him  he  asked  if  you 
would  be  there.  Well,  I'm  glad  you  had  a  nice  time, 
kiddy,  and  we'll  do  it  again!" 

Susan  had  thanked  her  gratefully  more  than  once, 
but  she  thanked  her  again  now.  She  felt  that  she  truly 
loved  Ella,  so  big  and  good  natured  and  kind. 

Emily  was  a  little  bit  cold  when  Susan  told  her  about 
the  ball,  and  the  companion  promptly  suppressed  the 
details  of  her  own  successes,  and  confined  her  recollec- 
tions to  the  girls  who  had  asked  for  Emily,  and  to 
generalities.  Susan  put  her  wilting  orchids  in  water, 
and  went  dreamily  through  the  next  two  or  three  days, 
recovering  from  the  pleasure  and  excitement. "  It  was 
almost  a  week  before  Emily  was  quite  herself  again; 
then,  when  Isabel  Wallace  came  running  in  to  Emily's 
sick-room  to  beg  Susan  to  fill  a  place  at  their  dinner- 
table  at  a  few  hours'  notice,  Susan's  firm  refusal  quite 
won  Emily's  friendship  back. 

"Isabel's  a  dear,"  said  Emily,  contentedly  settling 
down  with  the  Indian  bead-work  in  which  she  and  Susan 


268  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

had  had  several  lessons,  and  with  which  they  filled 
some  spare  time,  "but  she's  not  a  leader.  I  took  you 
up,  so  now  Isabel  does!  I  knew — I  felt  sure  that,  rf 
Ella  let  you  borrow  that  dress,  Isabel  would  begin  to 
patronize  you!" 

It  was  just  one  of  Emily's  nasty  speeches,  and  Emily 
really  wasn't  well,  so  Susan  reminded  herself,  when 
the  hot,  angry  color  burned  in  her  face,  and  an  angry 
answer  came  to  her  mind.  What  hurt  most  was  that 
it  was  partly  true ;  Emily  had  taken  her  up,  and,  when 
she  ceased  to  be  all  that  Emily  required  of  sympathy 
and  flattery  and  interest,  Emily  would  find  someone 
else  to  fill  Miss  Brown's  place.  Without  Emily  she 
was  nobody,  and  it  did  not  console  Susan  to  reflect  that, 
had  Emily's  fortune  been  hers  and  Emily  in  her  posi- 
tion, the  circumstances  would  be  exactly  reversed.  Just 
the  accident  of  having  money  would  have  made  Miss 
Brown  the  flattered  and  admired,  the  safe  and  secure 
one;  just  the  not  having  it  would  have  pushed  Emily 
further  even  than  Susan  was  from  the  world  of  leisure 
and  beauty  and  luxury. 

"This  world  is  money!"  thought  Susan,  when  she 
saw  the  head-waiter  come  forward  so  smilingly  .to  meet 
Ella  and  herself  at  the  Palm  Garden;  when  Leonard 
put  off  a  dozen  meekly  enduring  women  to  finish  Miss 
Emily  Saunders'  gown  on  time;  when  the  very  sexton 
at  church  came  hurrying  to  escort  Mrs.  Saunders  and 
herself  through  the  disappointed  crowds  in  the  aisles, 
and  establish  them  in,  and  lock  them  in,  the  big  empty 
pew.  The  newspapers  gave  half  a  column  of  blame 
to  the  little  girl  who  tried  to  steal  a  two-dollar  scarf 
from  the  Emporium,  but  there  was  nothing  but  admira- 
tion for  Ella  on  the  day  when  she  and  a  twenty-year- 
old  boy,  for  a  wager,  led  a  woolly  white  toy  lamb,  a 
lamb  costing  twenty-five  dollars,  through  the  streets, 
from  the  club  to  the  Palace  Hotel.  The  papers  were 
only  deeply  interested  and  amused  when  Miss  Elsa 
Chisholm  gave  a  dinner  to  six  favorite  riding-horses, 
who  were  entertained  in  the  family  dining-room  after 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  269 

a  layer  of  tan-bark  had  been  laid  on  the  floor,  and  fed 
by  their  owners  from  specially  designed  leather  bags 
and  boxes;  and  they  merely  reported  the  fact  that 
Miss  Dolly  Ripley  had  found  so  unusual  an  intelligence 
in  her  gardener  that  she  had  deeded  to  him  her  grand- 
father's eighty-thousand-dollar  library.  "He  really 
has  ever  so  much  better  brains  than  I  have,  don't  you 
know?"  said  Miss  Ripley  to  the  press. 

In  return  for  the  newspapers'  indulgent  attitude, 
however,  they  were  shown  no  clemency  by  the  Saunders 
and  the  people  of  their  set.  On  a  certain  glorious, 
golden  afternoon  in  May,  Susan,  twisting  a  card  that 
bore  the  name  of  Miss  Margaret  Summers,  repre- 
senting the  Chronicle,  went  down  to  see  the  reporter. 
The  Saunders  family  hated  newspaper  notoriety,  but 
it  was  a  favorite  saying  that  since  the  newspapers  would 
print  things  anyway,  they  might  as  well  get  them 
straight,  and  Susan  often  sent  dinner  or  luncheon  lists 
to  the  three  morning  papers. 

However,  the  young  woman  who  rose  when  Susan 
went  into  the  drawing-room  was  not  in  search  of  news. 
Her  young,  pretty  face  was  full  of  distress. 

"Miss  Saunders?"  asked  she. 

"I'm  Miss  Brown,"  Susan  said.  "Miss  Saunders  is 
giving  a  card-party  and  I  am  to  act  for  her." 

Miss  Summers,  beginning  her  story,  also  began  to 
cry.  She  was  the  society  editor,  she  explained,  and 
two  weeks  before  she  had  described  in  her  column  a 
luncheon  given  by  Miss  Emily  Saunders.  Among  the 
list  of  guests  she  had  mentioned  Miss  Carolyn  Seymour. 

"Not  Carolyn  Seymour!"  said  Susan,  shocked. 

"Why,  she  never  is  here!  The  Seymours "  she 

shook  her  head.  "I  know  people  do  accept  them,"  said 
Susan,  "but  the  Saunders  don't  even  know  them! 
They're  not  in  the  best  set,  you  know,  they're  really 
hardly  in  society  at  all !" 

"I  know  now,"  Miss  Summers  said  miserably.  "But 
all  the  other  girls — this  year's  debutantes — were  there, 


270  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

and  I  had  to  guess  at  most  of  the  names,  and  I  chanced 
it!  Fool  that  I  was!"  she  interrupted  herself  bitterly. 
"Well,  the  next  day,  while  I  was  in  the  office,  my 
telephone  rang.  It  was  Thursday,  and  I  had  my  Sun- 
day page  to  do,  and  I  was  just  rushing,  and  I  had  a  bad 
cold, — I've  got  it  yet.  So  I  just  said,  'What  is  it?' 
rather  sharply,  you  know,  and  a  voice  said,  in  a  busi- 
nesslike sort  of  way,  'How  did  you  happen  to  put  Miss 
Carolyn  Seymour's  name  on  Miss  Emily  Saunders' 
lunch  list?'  I  never  dreamed  that  it  was  Miss  Saun- 
ders; how  should  I?  She  didn't  say  T  or  'me'  or  any- 
thing— just  that.  So  I  said,  'Well,  is  it  a  matter  of  in- 
ternational importance?'  ' 

"Ouch!"  said  Susan,  wincing,  and  shaking  a  doubt- 
ful head. 

"I  know,  it  was  awful!"  the  other  girl  agreed  ea- 
gerly. "But "  her  anxious  eyes  searched  Susan's 

face.  "Well;  so  the  next  day  Mr.  Brice  called  me  into 
the  office,  and  showed  me  a  letter  from  Miss  Ella 

Saunders,  saying "  and  Miss  Summers  began  to 

cry  again.  "And  I  can't  tell  Mamma!"  she  sobbed. 
"My  brother's  been  so  ill,  and  I  was  so  proud  of  my 
position!" 

"Do  you  mean  they — fired  you?"  Susan  asked,  all 
sympathy. 

"He  said  he'd  have  to !"  gulped  Miss  Summers,  with 
a  long  sniff.  "He  said  that  Saunders  and  Babcock  ad- 
vertise so  much  with  them,  and  that,  if  she  wasn't 
appeased  somehow " 

"Well,  now,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Susan,  ringing  for 
tea,  "I'll  wait  until  Miss  Saunders  is  in  a  good  mood, 
and  then  I'll  do  the  very  best  I  can  for  you.  You 
know,  a  thing  like  that  seems  small,  but  it's  just  the 
sort  of  thing  that  is  really  important,"  she  pursued, 
consolingly.  She  had  quite  cheered  her  caller  before 
the  tea-cups  were  emptied,  but  she  was  anything  but 
hopeful  of  her  mission  herself. 

And  Ella  justified  her  misgivings  when  the  topic  was 
tactfully  opened  the  next  day. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  271 

"I'm  sorry  for  the  little  thing,"  said  Ella,  briskly, 
"but  she  certainly  oughtn't  to  have  that  position  if  she 
doesn't  know  better  than  that !  Carolyn  Seymour  in  this 
house — I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!  I  was  denying 
it  all  the  next  day  at  the  club  and  it's  extremely  un- 
pleasant. Besides,"  added  Ella,  reddening,  "she  was 
extremely  impertinent  about  it  when  I  telephoned " 

"Duchess,  she  didn't  dream  it  was  you !  She  only 

said  that  she  didn't  know  it  was  so  important " 

Susan  pleaded. 

"Well,"  interrupted  Miss  Saunders,  in  a  satisfied 
and  final  tone,  "next  time  perhaps  she  will  know  who 
it  is,  and  whether  it  is  important  or  notl  Sue,  while 
you're  there  at  the  desk,"  she  added,  "will  you  write 
to  Mrs.  Bergess,  Mrs.  Gerald  Florence  Bergess,  and 
tell  her  that  I  looked  at  the  frames  at  Gump's  for  her 
prizes,  and  they're  lovely,  from  fourteen  up,  and  that 
I  had  him  put  three  or  four  aside •" 

After  the  dance  Peter  began  to  call  rather  frequently 
at  "High  Gardens,"  a  compliment  which  Emily  took 
entirely  to  herself,  and  to  escort  the  girls  about  on 
their  afternoon  calls,  or  keep  them  and  Ella,  and  the 
old  mistress  of  the  house  as  well,  laughing  through- 
out the  late  and  formal  dinner.  Susan's  reserve  and 
her  resolutions  melted  before  the  old  charm;  she  had 
nothing  to  gain  by  snubbing  him;  it  was  much  pleas- 
anter  to  let  by-gones  be  by-gones,  and  enjoy  the  mo- 
ment. Peter  had  every  advantage;  if  she  refused  him 
her  friendship  a  hundred  other  girls  were  only  too 
eager  to  fill  her  place,  so  she  was  gay  and  companion- 
able with  him  once  more,  and  extracted  a  little  fresh 
flavor  from  the  friendship  in  Emily's  unconsciousness 
of.  the  constant  interchange  of  looks  and  inflections 
that  went  on  between  Susan  and  Peter  over  her  head. 
Susan  sometimes  thought  of  Mrs.  Carroll's  old  com- 
ment on  the  popula-rity  of  the  absorbed  and  busy  girl 
when  she  realized  that  Peter  was  trying  in  vain  to 
find  time  for  a  personal  word  with  her,  or  was  resent- 


272  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

ing  her  interest  in  some  other  caller,  while  she  left 
Emily  to  him.  She  was  nearer  to  Peter  than  ever,  a 
thousand  times  more  sure  of  herself,  and,  if  she  would 
still  have  married  him,  she  was  far  less  fond  of  him 
than  she  had  been  years  ago. 

Susan  asked  him  some  questions,  during  one  idle 
tea-time,  of  Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter.  His  uncle 
had  withdrawn  from  the  firm  now,  he  told  her,  add- 
ing with  characteristic  frankness  that  in  his  opinion 
"the  old  guy  got  badly  stung."  The  Baxter  home  had 
been  sold  to  a  club;  the  old  people  had  found  the 
great  house  too  big  for  them  and  were  established 
now  in  one  of  the  very  smartest  of  the  new  apartment 
houses  that  were  beginning  to  be  built  in  San  Fran- 
cisco. Susan  called,  with  Emily,  upon  Mrs.  Baxter,  and 
somehow  found  the  old  lady's  personality  as  curiously 
shrunk,  in  some  intangible  way,  as  was  her  domestic 
domain  in  actuality.  Mrs.  Baxter,  cackling  emphat- 
ically and  disapprovingly  of  the  world  in  general,  fus- 
sily accompanying  them  to  the  elevator,  was  merely 
a  rather  tiresome  and  pitiful  old  woman,  very  differ- 
ent from  the  delicate  little  grande  dame  of  Susan's 
recollection.  Ella  reported  the  Baxter  fortune  as 
sadly  diminished,  but  there  were  still  maids  and  the 
faithful  Emma;  there  were  still  the  little  closed  car- 
riage and  the  semi-annual  trip  to  Coronado.  Nor  did 
Peter  appear  to  have  suffered  financially  in  any  way; 
although  Mrs.  Baxter  had  somewhat  fretfully  confided 
to  the  girls  that  his  uncle  had  suggested  that  it  was 
time  that  Peter  stood  upon  his  own  feet;  and  that  Peter 
accordingly  had  entered  into  business  relations  with  a 
certain  very  wealthy  firm  of  grain  brokers.  Susan 
could  not  imagine  Peter  as  actively  involved  in  any 
very  lucrative  deals,  but  Peter  spent  a  great  deal  of 
money,  never  denied  himself  anything,  and  took  fre- 
quent and  delightful  vacations. 

He  took  Emily  and  Susan  to  polo  and  tennis  games, 
and,  when  the  season  at  the  hotel  opened,  they  went 
regularly  to  the  dances.  In  July  Peter  went  to  Tahoe, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  273 

where  Mrs.  Saunders  planned  to  take  the  younger  girls 
later  for  at  least  a  few  weeks'  stay.  Ella  chaperoned 
them  to  Burlingame  for  a  week  of  theatricals;  all  three 
staying  with  Ella's  friend,  Mrs.  Keith,  whose  daughter, 
Mary  Peacock,  had  also  Dolly  Ripley  and  lovely  Isabel 
Wallace  for  her  guests.  Little  Constance  Fox,  visit- 
ing some  other  friends  nearby,  was  in  constant  attend- 
ance upon  Miss  Ripley,  and  Susan  thought  the  rela- 
tionship between  them  an  extraordinary  study;  Miss 
Ripley  bored,  rude,  casual,  and  Constance  increasingly 
attentive,  eager,  admiring. 

"When  are  you  going  to  come  and  spend  a  week 
with  me?"  drawled  Miss  Ripley  to  Susan. 

"You'll  have  the  loveliest  time  of  your  life !"  Connie 
added,  brilliantly.  "Be  sure  you  ask  me  for  that  week, 
Dolly!" 

"We'll  write  you  about  it,"  Miss  Ripley  said  lazily, 
and  Constance,  putting  the  best  face  she  could  upon 
the  little  slight,  slapped  her  hand  playfully,  and  said: 

"Oh,  aren't  you  mean!" 

"Dolly  takes  it  so  for  granted  that  I'm  welcome  at 
her  house  at  any  time,"  said  Constance  to  Susan,  later, 
"that  she  forgets  how  rude  a  thing  like  that  can 
sound!"  She  had  followed  Susan  into  her  own  room, 
and  now  stood  by  the  window,  looking  down  a  sun- 
steeped  vista  of  lovely  roads  and  trees  and  gardens  with 
a  discontented  face.  Susan,  changing  her  dress  for  an 
afternoon  on  the  tennis-courts,  merely  nodded  sympa- 
thetically. 

"Lord,  I  would  like  to  go  this  afternoon!"  added 
Constance,  presently. 

"Aren't  you  going  over  for  the  tennis?"  Susan  asked 
in  amazement.  For  the  semi-finals  of  the  tournament 
were  to  be  played  on  this  glorious  afternoon,  and 
there  would  be  a  brilliant  crowd  on  the  courts  and  tea 
at  the  club  to  follow. 

"No;  I  can't!"  Miss  Fox  said  briefly.  "Tell  every- 
one that  I'm  lying  down  with  a  terrible  headache,  won't 
you?" 


274  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"But  why?"  asked  Susan.  For  the  headache  was 
obviously  a  fiction. 

"You  know  that  mustard-colored  linen  with  the  black 
embroidery  that  Dolly's  worn  once  or  twice,  don't 
you?"  asked  Connie,  with  apparent  irrelevancy. 

Susan  nodded,  utterly  at  a  loss. 

"Well,  she  gave  it  to  me  to-day,  and  the  hat  and 
the  parasol,"  said  Constance,  with  a  sort  of  resigned 
bitterness.  "She  said  she  had  got  the  outfit  at  Os- 
bourne's,  last  month,  and  she  thought  it  would  look 
stunning  on  me,  and  wouldn't  I  like  to  wear  it  to  the 
club  this  afternoon?" 

"Well ?"  Susan  said,  as  the  other  paused.  "Why 

not?" 

"Oh,  why  not!"  echoed  Connie,  with  mild  exaspera- 
tion. "Don't  be  a  damned  fool!" 

"Oh,  I  see!"  Susan  said,  enlightened.  "Everybody 
knows  it's  Miss  Ripley's,  of  course!  She  probably 
didn't  think  of  that!" 

"She  probably  did!"  responded  Connie,  with  a 
rather  dry  laugh.  "However,  the  fact  remains  that 
she'll  take  it  out  of  me  if  I  go  and  don't  wear  it,  and 
Mamma  never  will  forgive  me  if  I  do !  So,  I  came  in 
to  borrow  a  book.  Of  course,  Susan,  I've  taken  things 
from  Dolly  Ripley  before,  and  I  probably  will  again," 
she  added,  with  the  nearest  approach  to  a  sensible 
manner  that  Susan  had  ever  seen  in  her,  "but  this  is 
going  a  little  too  far!" 

And,  borrowing  a  book,  she  departed,  leaving  Susan 
to  finish  her  dressing  in  a  very  sober  frame  of  mind. 
She  wondered  if  her  relationship  toward  Emily  could 
possibly  impress  any  outsider  as  Connie's  attitude 
toward  Dolly  Ripley  impressed  her. 

With  Isabel  Wallace  she  began,  during  this  visit,  the 
intimate  and  delightful  friendship  for  which  they  two 
had  been  ready  for  a  long  time.  Isabel  was  two  years 
older  than  Susan,  a  beautiful,  grave-eyed  brunette,  gra- 
cious in  manner,  sweet  of  voice,  the  finest  type  that  her 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  275 

class  and  environment  can  produce.  Isabel  was  well 
read,  musical,  traveled;  she  spoke  two  or  three  lan- 
guages besides  her  mother  tongue.  She  had  been 
adored  all  her  life  by  three  younger  brothers,  by  her 
charming  and  simple,  half-invalid  mother,  and  her 
big,  clever  father,  and  now,  all  the  girls  were  begin- 
ning to  suspect,  was  also  adored  by  the  very  delightful 
Eastern  man  who  was  at  present  Mrs.  Butler  Holmes' 
guest  in  Burlingame,  and  upon  whom  all  of  them  had 
been  wasting  their  prettiest  smiles.  John  Furlong  was 
college-bred,  young,  handsome,  of  a  rich  Eastern  fam- 
ily, in  every  way  a  suitable  husband  for  the  beautiful 
woman  with  whom  he  was  so  visibly  falling  in  love. 

Susan  watched  the  little  affair  with  a  heartache,  not 
all  unworthy.  She  didn't  quite  want  to  be  Isabel,  or 
want  a  lover  quite  like  John.  But  she  did  long  for 
something  beautiful  and  desirable  all  her  own;  it  was 
hard  to  be  always  the  outsider,  always  alone.  When  she 
thought  of  Isabel's  father  and  mother,  their  joy  in 
her  joy,  her  own  pleasure  in  pleasing  them,  a  thrill  of 
pain  shook  her.  If  Isabel  was  all  grateful,  all  radiant, 
all  generous,  she,  Susan,  could  have  been  graceful  and 
radiant  and  generous  too !  She  lay  awake  in  the  soft 
summer  nights,  thinking  of  what  John  would  say  to 
Isabel,  and  what  Isabel,  so  lovely  and  so  happy,  would 
reply. 

"Sue,  you  will  know  how  wonderful  it  is  when  it 
comes  to  you!"  Isabel  said,  on  the  last  night  of  their 
Burlingame  visit,  when  she  gave  Susan  a  shy  hint  that 
it  was  "all  right"  if  a  profound  secret  still. 

The  girls  did  not  stay  for  the  theatricals,  after  all. 
Emily  was  deeply  disgusted  at  being  excluded  from 
some  of  the  ensembles  in  which  she  had  hoped  to  take 
part  and,  on  the  very  eve  of  the  festivities,  she  became 
alarmingly  ill,  threw  Mrs.  Keith's  household  into  utter 
consternation  and  confusion,  and  was  escorted  home 
immediately  by  Susan  and  a  trained  nurse. 

Back  at  "High  Gardens,"  they  settled  down  con- 


276  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

tentedly  enough  to  the  familiar  routine.  Emily  spent 
two-thirds  of  the  time  in  bed,  but  Susan,  fired  by  Isabel 
Wallace's  example,  took  regular  exercises  now,  airing 
the  dogs  or  finding  commissions  to  execute  for  Emily 
or  Mrs.  Saunders,  made  radical  changes  in  her  diet, 
and  attempted,  with  only  partial  success,  to  confine 
her  reading  to  improving  books.  A  relative  had  sent 
Emily  the  first  of  the  new  jig-saw  puzzles  from  New 
York,  and  Emily  had  immediately  wired  for  more.  She 
and  Susan  spent  hours  over  them;  they  became  in  fact 
an  obsession,  and  Susan  began  to  see  jig-saw  divisions 
in  everything  her  eye  rested  on;  the  lawn,  the  clouds, 
or  the  drawing-room  walls. 

Sometimes  Kenneth  joined  them,  and  Susan  knew 
that  it  was  on  her  account.  She  was  very  demure  with 
him;  her  conversation  for  Emily,  her  eyes  all  sisterly 
unembarrassment  when  they  met  his.  Mrs.  Saunders 
was  not  well,  and  kept  to  her  room,  so  that  more  than 
once  Susan  dined  alone  with  the  man  of  the  house. 
When  this  happened  Kenneth  would  bring  his  chair 
down  from  the  head  of  the  table  and  set  it  next  to 
hers.  He  called  her  "Tweeny"  for  some  favorite 
character  in  a  play,  brought  her  some  books  she  had 
questioned  him  about,  asked  her  casually,  on  the  days 
she  went  to  town  for  Emily,  at  what  time  she  would 
come  back,  and  joined  her  on  the  train. 

Susan  had  thought  of  him  as  a  husband,  as  she 
thought  of  every  unattached  man,  the  instant  she  met 
him.  But  the  glamour  of  those  early  views  of  Kenneth 
Saunders  had  been  somewhat  dimmed,  and  since  her 
arrival  at  "High  Gardens"  she  had  tried  rather  more 
not  to  displease  this  easily  annoyed  member  of  the 
family,  than  to  make  a  definite  pleasant  impression 
upon  him.  Now,  however,  she  began  seriously  to  con- 
sider him.  And  it  took  her  a  few  brief  moments  only 
to  decide  that,  if  he  should  ask  her,  she  would  be  mad 
to  refuse  to  become  his  wife.  He  was  probably  as 
fine  a  match  as  offered  itself  at  the  time  in  all  San 
Francisco's  social  set,  good-looking,  of  a  suitable  age, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  277 

a  gentleman,  and  very  rich.  He  was  so  rich  and  of  so 
socially  prominent  a  family  that  his  wife  need  never 
trouble  herself  with  the  faintest  thought  of  her  own 
standing;  it  would  be  an  established  fact,  supreme  and 
irrefutable.  Beside  him  Peter  Coleman  was  a  poor 
man,  and  even  Isabel's  John  paled  socially  and  finan- 
cially. Kenneth  Saunders  would  be  a  brilliant  "catch" 
for  any  girl;  for  little  Susan  Brown — it  would  be  a 
veritable  triumph! 

Susan's  heart  warmed  as  she  thought  of  the  de- 
tails. There  would  be  a  dignified  announcement  from 
Mrs.  Saunders.  Then, — Babel!  Telephoning,  notes, 
telegrams !  Ella  would  of  course  do  the  correct  thing; 
there  would  be  a  series  of  receptions  and  dinners; 
there  would  be  formal  affairs  on  all  sides.  The  news- 
papers would  seize  upon  it;  the  family  jewels  would 
be  reset;  the  long-stored  silver  resurrected.  There 
would  be  engagement  cups  and  wedding-presents,  and 
a  trip  East,  and  the  instant  election  of  young  Mrs. 
Saunders  to  the  Town  and  Country  Club.  And,  in  all 
the  confusion,  the  graceful  figure  of  the  unspoiled  little 
companion  would  shine  serene,  poised,  gracious,  pret- 
tily deferential  to  both  the  sisters-in-law  of  whom  she 
now,  as  a  matron,  took  precedence. 

Kenneth  Saunders  was  no  hero  of  romance;  he  was 
at  best  a  little  silent  and  unresponsive;  he  was  a  trifle 
bald;  his  face,  Susan  had  thought  at  first  sight,  indi- 
cated weakness  and  dissipation.  But  it  was  a  very 
handsome  face  withal,  and,  if  silent,  Kenneth  could 
be  very  dignified  and  courteous  in  his  manner;  "very 
much  the  gentleman,"  Susan  said  to  herself,  "always 
equal  to  the  situation" ! 

Other  things,  more  serious  things,  she  liked  to  think 
she  was  woman  of  the  world  enough  to  condone.  He 
drank  to  excess,  of  course ;  no  woman  could  live  in  the 
same  house  with  him  and  remain  unaware  of  that; 
Susan  had  often  heard  him  raging  in  the  more  intense 
stages  approaching  delirium  tremens.  There  had  been 
other  things,  too ; — women,  but  Susan  had  only  a  vague 


278  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

idea  of  just  what  that  meant,   and  Kenneth's  world 
resolutely  made  light  of  it. 

"Ken's  no  molly-coddle!"  Ella  had  said  to  her  com- 
placently, in  connection  with  this  topic,  and  one  of 
Ella's  closest  friends  had  added,  "Oh,  Heaven  save 
me  from  ever  having  one  of  my  sons  afraid  to  go  out 
and  do  what  the  other  boys  do.  Let  'em  sow  their 
wild  oats,  they're  all  the  sooner  over  it!" 

So  Susan  did  not  regard  this  phase  of  his  nature 
very  seriously.  Indeed  his  mother  often  said  wail- 
ingly  that,  if  Kenneth  could  only  find  some  "fine  girl," 
and  settle  down,  he  would  be  the  steadiest  and  best 
fellow  in  the  world.  It  was  Mrs.  Saunders  who  eluci- 
dated the  last  details  of  a  certain  episode  of  Kenneth's 
early  life  for  Susan.  Emily  had  spoken  of  it,  and 
Ella  had  once  or  twice  alluded  to  it,  but  from  them 
Susan  only  gathered  that  Kenneth,  in  some  inexplicable 
and  outrageous  way,  had  been  actually  arrested  for 
something  that  was  not  in  the  least  his  fault,  and  held 
as  a  witness  in  a  murder  case.  He  had  been  but 
twenty-two  years  old  at  the  time,  and,  as  his  sisters 
indignantly  agreed,  it  had  ruined  his  life  for  year$ 
following,  and  Ken  should  have  sued  the  person  or 
persons  who  had  dared  to  involve  the  son  of  the  house 
of  Saunders  in  so  disgraceful  and  humiliating  an  af- 
fair. 

"It  was  in  one  of  those  bad  houses,  my  dear,"  Mrs. 
Saunders  finally  contributed,  "and  poor  Ken  was  no 
worse  than  the  "thousands  of  other  men  who  frequent 
'em !  Of  course,  it's  terrible  from  a  woman's  point  of 
view,  but  you  know  what  men  are !  And  when  this 
terrible  thing  happened,  Ken  wasn't  anywhere  near— 
didn't  know  one  thing  about  it  until  a  great  big  brute 

of  a  policeman  grabbed  hold  of  his  arm !     And 

of  course  the  newspapers  mentioned  my  poor  boy's 
name  in  connection  with  it,  far  and  wide!" 

After  that  Kenneth  had  gone  abroad  for  a  long 
time,  and  whether  the  trained  nurse  who  had  at  that 
time  entered  his  life  was  really  a  nurse,  or  whether 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  279 

she  had  merely  called  herself  one,  Susan  could  not 
quite  ascertain.  Either  the  family  had  selected  this 
nurse,  to  take  care  of  Kenneth  who  was  not  well  at 
the  time,  or  she  had  joined  him  later  and  traveled  with 
him  as  his  nurse.  Whatever  it  was,  the  association 
had  lasted  two  or  three  years,  and  then  Kenneth  had 
come  home,  definitely  disenchanted  with  women  in  gen- 
eral and  woman  in  particular,  and  had  settled  down 
into  the  silent,  cynical,  unresponsive  man  that  Susan 
knew.  If  he  ever  had  any  experiences  whatever  with 
the  opposite  sex  they  were  not  of  a  nature  to  be  men- 
tioned before  his  sisters  and  his  mother.  He  scorned 
all  the  women  of  Ella's  set,  and  was  bitingly  critical  of 
Emily's  friends. 

One  night,  lying  awake,  Susan  thought  that  she 
heard  a  dim  commotion  from  the  direction  of  the 
hallway — Kenneth's  voice,  Ella's  voice,  high  and  angry, 
some  unfamiliar  feminine  voice,  hysterical  and  shrill, 
and  Mrs.  Saunders,  crying  out:  "Tottie,  don't  speak 
that  way  to  Kennie!" 

But  before  she  could  rouse  herself  fully,  Mycroft's 
soothing  tones  drowned  out  the  other  voices ;  there  was 
evidently  a  truce.  The  episode  ended  a  few  moments 
later  with  the  grating  of  carriage  wheels  on  the  drive 
far  below,  and  Susan  was  not  quite  sure,  the  next 
morning,  that  it  had  been  more  than  a  dream. 

But  Kenneth's  history,  summed  up,  was  not  a  bit 
less  edifying,  was  not  indeed  half  as  unpleasant,  as  that 
of  many  of  the  men,  less  rich  and  less  prominent  than 
he,  who  were  marrying  lovely  girls  everywhere,  with 
the  full  consent  and  approval  of  parents  and  guardians. 
Susan  had  seen  the  newspaper  accounts  of  the  debauch 
that  preceded  young  Harry  van  Vleet's  marriage  only 
by  a  few  hours;  had  seen  the  bridegroom,  still  white- 
faced  and  shaking,  lead  away  from  the  altar  one  of 
the  sweetest  of  the  debutantes.  She  had  heard  Rose 
St.  John's  mother  say  pleasantly  to  Rose's  promised 
husband,  "I  asked  your  Chinese  boy  about  those  little 
week-end  parties  at  your  bungalow,  Russell;  I  said, 


280  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

'Yoo,  were  they  pretty  ladies  Mr.  Russ  used  to  have 
over  there?'  But  he  only  said  'No  can  'member!'  ' 

"That's  where  his  wages  go  up!"  the  gentleman  had 
responded  cheerfully. 

And,  after  all,  Susan  thought,  looking  on,  Russell 
Lord  was  not  as  bad  as  the  oldest  Gerald  boy,  who 
married  an  Eastern  girl,  an  heiress  and  a  beauty,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  his  utter  unfitness  for  marriage 
was  written  plain  in  his  face;  or  as  bad  as  poor  Trixie 
Chauncey's  husband,  who  had  entirely  disappeared 
from  public  view,  leaving  the  buoyant  Trixie  to  recon- 
cile two  infant  sons  to  the  unknown  horrors  and  dan- 
gers of  the  future. 

If  Kenneth  drank,  after  his  marriage,  Mycroft 
would  take  care  of  him,  as  he  did  now;  but  Susan 
honestly  hoped  that  domesticity,  for  which  Kenneth 
seemed  to  have  a  real  liking,  would  affect  him  in  every 
way  for  good.  She  had  not  that  horror  of  drink  that 
had  once  been  hers.  Everybody  drank,  before  dinner, 
with  dinner,  after  dinner.  It  was  customary  to  have 
some  of  the  men  brighten  under  it,  some  overdo  it, 
some  remain  quite  sober  in  spite  of  it.  Susan  and 
Emily,  like  all  the  girls  they  knew,  frequently  ordered 
cocktails  instead  of  afternoon  tea,  when,  as.  it  might 
happen,  they  were  in  the  Palace  or  the  new  St.  Francis. 
The  cocktails  were  served  in  tea-cups,  the  waiter 
gravely  passed  sugar  and  cream  with  them;  the  little 
deception  was  immensely  enjoyed  by  everyone.  "Two 
in  a  cup,  Martini,"  Emily  would  say,  settling  into  her 
seat,  and  the  waiter  would  look  deferentially  at  Susan, 
"The  same,  madam?" 

It  was  a  different  world  from  her  old  world;  it  used 
a  different  language,  lived  by  another  code.  None  of 
her  old  values  held  here ;  things  she  had  always  thought 
quite  permissible  were  unforgivable  sins;  things  at 
which  Auntie  would  turn  pale  with  horror  were  a 
quietly  accepted  part  of  every-day  life.  No  story  was 
too  bad  for  the  women  to  tell  over  their  tea-cups,  or  in 
their  boudoirs,  but  if  any  little  ordinary  physical  mis- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  281 

ery  were  alluded  to,  except  in  the  most  flippant  way, 
such  as  the  rash  on  a  child's  stomach,  or  the  preceding 
discomforts  of  maternity,  there  was  a  pained  and  dis- 
gusted silence,  and  an  open  snub,  if  possible,  for  the 
woman  so  crude  as  to  introduce  the  distasteful  topic. 
Susan  saw  good  little  women  ostracized  for  the  fact 
that  their  husbands  did  not  appear  at  ease  in  evening 
dress,  for  their  evident  respect  for  their  own  butlers, 
or  for  their  mere  eagerness  to  get  into  society.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  saw  warmly  accepted  and  admired 
the  beautiful  Mrs.  Nokesmith,  who  had  married  her 
second  husband  the  day  after  her  release  from  her 
first,  and  pretty  Beulah  Garrett,  whose  father  had 
swindled  a  hundred  trusting  friends  out  of  their  entire 
capital,  and  Mrs.  Lawrence  Edwards,  whose  oldest 
son  had  just  had  a  marriage,  contracted  with  a  Barbary 
Coast  woman  while  he  was  intoxicated,  canceled  by 
law.  Divorce  and  disease,  and  dishonesty  and  insan- 
ity did  not  seem  so  terrible  as  they  once  had;  perhaps, 
because  they  were  never  called  by  their  real  names. 
The  insane  were  beautifully  cared  for  and  safely  out  of 
sight;  to  disease  no  allusion  was  ever  made;  dishonesty 
was  carried  on  in  mysterious  business  avenues  far  from 
public  inspection  and  public  thought;  and,  as  Ella  once 
pointed  out,  the  happiest  people  in  society  were  those 
who  had  been  married  unhappily,  divorced,  and  more 
fortunately  mated  a  second  time.  All  the  married 
women  Ella  knew  had  "crushes" — young  men  who 
lounged  in  every  afternoon  for  tea  and  cigarettes  and 
gossip,  and  filled  chairs  at  dinner  parties,  and  formed 
a  background  in  a  theater  box.  Sometimes  one  or  two 
matrons  and  their  admirers,  properly  chaperoned,  or 
in  safe  numbers,  went  off  on  motoring  trips,  and  per- 
haps encountered,  at  the  Del  Monte  or  Santa  Cruz 
hotels  their  own  husbands,  with  the  women  that  they 
particularly  admired.  Nothing  was  considered  quite  so 
pitiful  as  the  wife  who  found  this  arrangement  at  all 
distressing.  "It's  always  all  right,"  said  Ella,  broadly, 
to  Susan. 


CHAPTER    IV 

IN  the  autumn  Susan  went  home  for  a  week,  for 
the  Lancaster  family  was  convulsed  by  the  prospect 
of  Alfie's  marriage  to  a  little  nobody  whose  father 
kept  a  large  bakery  in  the  Mission,  and  Susan  was 
needed  to  brace  Alfred's  mother  for  the  blow.  Mary 
Lou's  old  admirer  and  his  little,  invalid  wife,  were 
staying  at  the  house  now,  and  Susan  found  "Ferd" 
a  sad  blow  to  her  old  romantic  vision  of  him:  a  stout, 
little,  ruddy-cheeked  man,  too  brilliantly  dressed,  with 
hair  turning  gray,  and  an  offensive  habit  of  attacking 
the  idle  rich  for  Susan's  benefit,  and  dilating  upon  his 
own  business  successes.  Georgie  came  over  to  spend 
a  night  in  the  old  home  while  Susan  was  there,  carry- 
ing the  heavy,  lumpy  baby.  Myra  was  teething  now, 
cross  and  unmanageable,  and  Georgie  was  worried  be- 
cause a  barley  preparation  did  not  seem  to, agree  with 
her,  and  Joe  disapproved  of  patent  foods.  Joe  hoped 
that  the  new  baby — Susan  widened  her  eyes.  Oh,  yes, 
in  May,  Georgie  announced  simply,  and  with  a  tired 
sigh, — Joe  hoped  the  new  baby  would  be  a  boy.  She 
herself  hoped  for  a  little  girl,  wouldn't  it  be  sweet  to 
call  it  May?  Georgie  looked  badly,  and  if  she  did  not 
exactly  break  down  and  cry  during  her  visit,  Susan 
felt  that  tears  were  always  close  behind  her  eyes. 

Billy,  beside  her  somewhat  lachrymose  aunt  and 
cousins,  shone  out,  during  this  visit,  as  Susan  had  never 
known  him  to  do  before.  He  looked  splendidly  big  and 
strong  and  well,  well  groomed  and  erect  in  carriage, 
and  she  liked  the  little  compliment  he  paid  her  in 
postponing  the  German  lesson  that  should  have  filled 
the  evening,  and  dressing  himself  in  his  best  to  take 
her  to  the  Orpheum.  Susan  returned  it  by  wearing 

282 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  283 

her  prettiest  gown  and  hat.  They  set  out  in  great 
spirits,  Susan  chattering  steadily,  in  the  relief  it  was 
to  speak  her  mind  honestly,  and  Billy  listening,  and 
now  and  then  shouting  out  in  the  laughter  that  never 
failed  her  spirited  narratives. 

He  told  her  of  the  Carrolls, — all  good  news,  for 
Anna  had  been  offered  a  fine  position  as  assistant 
matron  in  one  of  the  best  of  the  city's  surgical  hos- 
pitals; Betts  had  sold  a  story  to  the  Argonaut  for 
twelve  dollars,  and  Philip  was  going  steadily  ahead; 
"you  wouldn't  believe  he  was  the  same  fellow!"  said 
Billy.  Jimmy  and  Betts  and  their  mother  were  to  go 
up  in  a  few  days  for  a  fortnight's  holiday  in  the  little 
shooting-box  that  some  Eastern  friends  had  built  years 
ago  in  the  Humboldt  woods.  The  owners  had  left  the 
key  with  Mrs.  Carroll,  and  she  might  use  the  little 
cabin  as  much  as  she  liked. 

"And  what  about  Jo?"  Susan  asked. 

This  was  the  best  news  of  all.  Jo  was  to  go  East 
for  the  winter  with  one  of  her  mother's  friends,  whose 
daughter  was  Jo's  own  age.  They  were  to  visit  Boston 
and  Washington,  New  York  for  the  Opera,  Palm 
Beach  in  February,  and  New  Orleans  for  the  Mardi 
Gras.  Mrs.  Frothingham  was  a  widow,  and  had  a  son 
at  Yale,  who  would  join  them  for  some  of  the  holidays. 
Susan  was  absolutely  delighted  at  the  news,  and  alluded 
to  it  over  and  over  again. 

"It's  so  different  when  people  deserve  a  thing,  and 
when  it's  all  new  to  them,"  she  said  to  Billy,  "it  makes 
it  seem  so  much  more  glorious!" 

They  came  out  of  the  theater  at  eleven,  cramped 
and  blinking,  and  Susan,  confused  for  a  moment,  was 
trying  to  get  her  bearings,  when  Billy  touched  her 
arm. 

"The  Earl  of  Somerset  is  trying  to  bow  to  you, 
Sue!" 

She  laughed,  and  followed  the  direction  of  his  look. 
It  was  Stephen  Bocqueraz  who  was  smiling  at  her,  a 


284  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

very  distinguished  figure  under  the  lamp-post,  with  his 
fur-lined  great-coat,  his  round  tortoise-shell  eye-glasses 
and  his  silk  hat.  He  came  up  to  them  at  once,  and 
Susan,  pleasantly  conscious  that  a  great  many  people 
recognized  the  great  man,  introduced  him  to  Billy. 

He  had  just  gotten  back  from  a  long  visit  in  the 
Southern  part  of  the  state,  he  said,  and  had  been 
dining  to-night  with  friends  at  the  Bohemian  Club, 
and  was  walking  back  to  his  hotel.  Susan  could  not 
keep  the  pleasure  the  meeting  gave  her  out  of  her 
eyes  and  voice,  and  Billy  showed  a  sort  of  boyish  and 
bashful  admiration  of  the  writer,  too. 

"But  this — this  is  a  very  felicitous  occasion,"  said 
Mr.  Bocqueraz.  "We  must  celebrate  this  in  some 
fitting  manner!" 

So  he  took  them  to  supper,  dismissing  their  hesita- 
tion as  unworthy  of  combat;  Susan  and  Billy  laughed 
helplessly  and  happily  as  they  sat  down  at  the  little 
table,  and  heard  the  German  waiter's  rapture  at  the 
commands  Stephen  Bocqueraz  so  easily  gave  him  in  his 
mother  tongue.  Billy,  reddening  but  determined,  must 
at  once  try  his  German  too,  and  the  waiter  and  Boc- 
queraz laughed  at  him  even  while  they  answered  him, 
and  agreed  that  the  young  man  as  a  linguist  was 
gan-z  wunderbar.  Billy  evidently  liked  his  company; 
he  was  at  his  best  to-night,  unaffected,  youthful,  ear- 
nest. Susan  herself  felt  that  she  had  never  been  so 
happy  in  her  life. 

Long  afterward  she  tried  to  remember  what  they 
had  talked  about.  She  knew  that  the  conversation  had 
been  to  her  as  a  draught  of  sparkling  wine.  All  her 
little  affections  were  in  full  play  to-night,  the  little 
odds  and  ends  of  worldly  knowledge  she  had  gleaned 
from  Ella  and  Ella's  friends,  the  humor  of  Emily  and 
Peter  Coleman.  And  because  she  was  an  Irishman's 
daughter  a  thousand  witticisms  flashed  in  her  speech, 
and  her  eyes  shone  like  stars  under  the  stimulus  of 
another's  wit  and  the  admiration  in  another's  eyes. 

It  became  promptly  evident  that  Bocqueraz  liked 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  285 

them  both.  He  began  to  call  Billy  "lad,"  in  a  friendly, 
older-brotherly  manner,  and  his  laughter  at  Susan  was 
alternated  with  moments  of  the  gravest,  the  most  flat- 
tering attention. 

"She's  quite  wonderful,  isn't  she?"  he  said  to  Billy 
under  his  breath,  but  Susan  heard  it,  and  later  he 
added,  quite  impersonally,  "She's  absolutely  extraor- 
dinary! We  must  have  her  in  New  York,  you  know; 
my  wife  must  meet  herl" 

They  talked  of  music  and  musicians,  and  Bocqueraz 
and  Billy  argued  and  disputed,  and  presently  the 
author's  card  was  sent  to  the  leader  of  the  orchestra, 
with  a  request  for  the  special  bit  of  music  under  dis- 
cussion. They  talked  of  authors  and  poets  and  paint- 
ers and  actors,  and  he  knew  many  of  them,  and  knew 
something  of  them  all.  He  talked  of  clubs,  New  York 
clubs  and  London  clubs,  and  of  plays  that  were  yet 
to  be  given,  and  music  that  the  public  would  never  hear. 

Susan  felt  as  if  electricity  was  coursing  through  her 
veins.  She  felt  no  fatigue,  no  sleepiness,  no  hunger; 
her  champagne  bubbled  untouched,  but  she  emptied  her 
glass  of  ice-water  over  and  over  again.  Of  the  lights 
and  the  music  and  the  crowd  she  was  only  vaguely  con- 
scious; she  saw,  as  if  in  a  dream,  the  hands  of  the  big 
clock,  at  the  end  of  the  room,  move  past  one,  past  two 
o'clock,  but  she  never  thought  of  the  time. 

It  was  after  two  o'clock;  still  they  talked  on.  The 
musicians  had  gone  home,  lights  were  put  out  in  the 
corners  of  the  room,  tables  and  chairs  were  being  piled 
together. 

Stephen  Bocqueraz  had  turned  his  chair  so  that  he 
sat  sideways  at  the  table;  Billy,  opposite  him,  leaned 
on  his  elbows;  Susan,  sitting  between  them,  framing 
her  face  in  her  hands,  moved  her  eyes  from  one  face 
to  the  other. 

"And  now,  children,"  said  the  writer,  when  at  last 
they  were  in  the  empty,  chilly  darkness  of  the  street, 
"where  can  I  get  you  a  carnage?  The  cars  seem  to 
have  stopped. 


286  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"The  cars  stop  at  about  one,"  said  William,  "but 
there's  a  place  two  blocks  up  where  we  can  get  a 
hack.  Don't  let  us  take  you  out  of  your  way." 

"Good-night,  then,  lad,"  said  Bocqueraz,  laying  his 
hand  affectionately  on  Billy's  shoulder.  "Good-night, 
you  wonderful  little  girl.  Tell  my  wife's  good  cousins 
in  San  Rafael  that  I  am  coming  over  very  soon  to  pay 
my  respects." 

He  turned  briskly  on  his  heel  and  left  them,  and 
Susan  stood  looking  after  him  for  a  moment. 

"Where's  your  livery  stable?"  asked  the  girl  then, 
taking  Billy's  arm. 

"There  isn't  any!"  Billy  told  her  shamelessly.  "But 
I've  got  just  a  dollar  and  eighty  cents,  and  I  was  afraid 
he  would  put  us  into  a  carriage !" 

Susan,  brought  violently  to  earth,  burst  out  laugh- 
ing, gathered  her  skirts  up  philosophically,  and  took 
his  arm  for  the  long  walk  home.  It  was  a  cool  bright 
night,  the  sky  was  spattered  thickly  with  stars,  the 
moon  long  ago  set.  Susan  was  very  silent,  mind  and 
heart  swept  with  glorious  dreams.  Billy,  beyond  the 
remark  that  Bocqueraz  certainly  was  a  king,  also  had 
little  to  say,  but  his  frequent  yawns  indicated  that  it 
was  rather  because  of  fatigue  than  of  visions. 

The  house  was  astir  when  they  reached  it,  but  the 
confusion  there  was  too  great  to  give  anyone  time  to 
notice  the  hour  of  their  return.  Alfie  had  brought  his 
bride  to  see  his  mother,  earlier  in  the  evening,  and 
Ma  had  had  hysterics  the  moment  that  they  left  the 
house.  These  were  no  sooner  calmed  than  Mrs.  East- 
man had  had  a  "stroke,"  the  doctor  had  now  come  and 
gone,  but  Mary  Lou  and  her  husband  still  hovered  over 
the  sufferer,  "and  I  declare  I  don't  know  what  the 
world's  coming  to!"  Mrs.  Lancaster  said  despairingly. 

"What  is  it — what  is  it?"  Mary  Lord  was  calling, 
when  Susan  reached  the  top  flight.  Susan  went  in  to 
give  her  the  news.  Mary  was  restless  to-night,  and 
glad  of  company;  the  room  seemed  close  and  warm. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  287 

Lydia,  sleeping  heavily  on  the  couch,  only  turned  and 
grunted  occasionally  at  the  sound  of  the  girls'  voices. 

Susan  lay  awake  until  almost  dawn,  wrapped  in 
warm  and  delicious  emotion.  She  recalled  the  little 
separate  phases  of  the  evening's  talk,  brought  them 
from  her  memory  deliberately,  one  by  one.  When 
she  remembered  that  Mr.  Bocqueraz  had  asked  if 
Billy  was  "the  fiance,"  for  some  reason  she  could  not 
define,  she  shut  her  eyes  in  the  dark,  and  a  wave  of 
some  new,  enveloping  delight  swept  her  from  feet  to 
head.  Certain  remembered  looks,  inflections,  words, 
shook  the  deeps  of  her  being  with  a  strange  and 
poignantly  sweet  sense  of  weakness  and  power :  a  trem- 
bling joy. 

The  new  thrill,  whatever  it  was,  was  with  her  when 
she  wakened,  and  when  she  ran  downstairs,  humming 
the  Toreador's  song,  Mary  Lou  and  her  aunt  told  her 
that  she  was  like  a  bit  of  sunshine  in  the  house;  the 
girl's  eyes  were  soft  and  bright  with  dreams;  her 
cheeks  were  glowing. 

When  the  postman  came  she  flew  to  meet  him. 
There  was  no  definite  hope  in  her  mind  as  she  did  so, 
but  she  came  back  more  slowly,  nevertheless.  No  letter 
for  her. 

But  at  eleven  o'clock  a  messenger  boy  appeared 
with  a  special  delivery  letter  for  Miss  Susan  Brown. 
She  signed  the  little  book  with  a  sensation  that  was 
almost  fear.  This — this  was  beginning  to  frighten 
her 

Susan  read  it  with  a  fast-beating  heart.  It  was 
short,  dignified.  Mr.  Bocqueraz  wrote  that  he  was 
sending  her  the  book  of  which  he  had  spoken;  he  had 
enjoyed  nothing  for  a  long  time  as  much  as  their  little 
supper  last  evening;  he  hoped  to  see  her  and  that  very 
fine  lad,  Billy,  very  soon  again.  His  love  to  them  both. 
He  was  her  faithful  friend,  all  ways  and  always, 
Stephen  Graham  Bocqueraz. 

She  slipped  it  inside  her  blouse,  ignored  it  for  a 


288  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

few  moments,  returned  to  it  from  other  thoughts  with 
a  sense  of  infinite  delight,  and  read  it  again.  Susan 
could  not  quite  analyze  its  charm,  but  in  her  whole 
being  she  was  conscious  of  a  warmth,  a  lightness,  and 
a  certain  sweet  and  heady  happiness  throughout  the 
entire  day  and  the  next  day. 

Her  thoughts  began  to  turn  toward  New  York. 
All  young  Californians  are  conscious,  sooner  or  later 
in  their  growth,  of  the  call  of  the  great  city,  and 
just  now  Susan  was  wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  dreams 
that  hung  over  Broadway.  She  saw  herself  one  of 
the  ebbing  and  flowing  crowd,  watching  the  world 
from  her  place  at  the  breakfast  table  in  a  great  hotel, 
sweeping  through  the  perfumed  warmth  and  bright- 
ness of  a  theater  lobby  to  her  carriage. 

Stephen  Bocqueraz  had  spoken  of  her  coming  to 
New  York  as  a  matter  of  course.  "You  belong  there," 
he  decided,  gravely  appraising  her.  "My  wife  will 
write  to  ask  you  to  come,  and  we  will  find  you  just 
the  niche  you  like  among  your  own  sort  and  kind,  and 
your  own  work  to  do." 

"Oh,  it  would  be  too  wonderful !"  Susan  had  gasped. 

"New  York  is  not  wonderful,"  he  told  her,  with  smil- 
ing, kindly,  disillusioned  eyes,  "but  you  are  wonder- 
ful!" 

Susan,  when  she  went  back  to  San  Rafael,  was  seized 
by  a  mood  of  bitter  dissatisfaction  with  herself.  What 
did  she  know — what  could  she  do?  She  was  fitted 
neither  for  the  stage  nor  for  literature,  she  had  no 
gift  of  music  or  of  art.  Lost  opportunities  rose  up  to 
haant  her.  Ah,  if  she  had  only  studied  something, 
if  she  were  only  wiser,  a  linguist,  a  student  of  poetry 
or  of  history.  Nearing  twenty-five,  she  was  as  igno- 
rant as  she  had  been  at  fifteen !  A  remembered  line 
from  a  carelessly  read  poem,  a  reference  to  some  play 
by  Ibsen  or  Maeterlinck  or  d'Annunzio,  or  the  memory 
of  some  newspaper  clipping  that  concerned  the  mar- 
riage of  a  famous  singer  or  the  power  of,  a  new  anaes- 
thetic,— this  was  all  her  learning! 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Stephen  Bocqueraz,  on  the  Sunday  following  their 
second  meeting,  called  upon  his  wife's  mother's  cousin. 
Mrs.  Saunders  was  still  at  the  hospital,  and  Emily  was 
driven  by  the  excitement  of  the  occasion  behind  a  very 
barrier  of  affectations,  but  Kenneth  was  gracious  and 
hospitable,  and  took  them  all  to  the  hotel  for  tea. 
Here  they  were  the  center  of  a  changing,  admiring, 
laughing  group;  everybody  wanted  to  have  at  least 
a  word  with  the  great  man,  and  Emily  enjoyed  a  de- 
lightful feeling  of  popularity.  Susan,  quite  eclipsed, 
was  apparently  pleasantly  busy  with  her  tea,  and  with 
the  odds  and  ends  of  conversation  that  fell  to  her.  But 
Susan  knew  that  Stephen  Bocqueraz  did  not  move  out 
of  her  hearing  for  one  moment  during  the  afternoon, 
nor  miss  a  word  that  she  said;  nor  say,  she  suspected, 
a  word  that  she  was  not  meant  to  hear.  Just  to  existv 
under  these  conditions,  was  enough.  Susan,  in  quiet 
undertones,  laughed  and  chatted  and  flirted  and  filled 
tea-cups,  never  once  directly  addressing  the  writer,  and 
never  really  addressing  anyone  else. 

Kenneth  brought  "Cousin  Stephen"  home  for  din- 
ner, but  Emily  turned  fractious,  and  announced  that 
she  was  not  going  down. 

"You'd  rather  be  up  here  just  quietly  with  me, 
wouldn't  you,  Sue?"  coaxed  Emily,  sitting  on  the  arm 
of  Susan's  chair,  and  putting  an  arm  about  her. 

"Of  course  I  would,  old  lady!  We'll  send  down 
for  something  nice,  and  get  into  comfortable  things,'* 
Susan  said. 

It  hardly  disappointed  her;  she  was  walking  on  air. 
She  went  demurely  to  the  library  door,  to  make  her 
excuses;  and  Bocqueraz's  look  enveloped  her  like  a 
shaft  of  sunlight.  All  the  evening,  upstairs,  and 
stretched  out  in  a  long  chair  and  in  a  loose  silk  wrap- 
per, she  was  curiously  conscious  of  his  presence  down- 
stairs; whenever  she  thought  of  him,  she  must  close 
her  book,  and  fall  to  dreaming.  His  voice,  his  words, 
the  things  he  had  not  said  .  .  .  they  spun  a  brilliant 
web  about  her.  She  loved  to  be  young;  she  saw  new 


290  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

beauty  to-night  in  the  thick  rope  of  tawny  hair  that 
hung  loosely  across  her  shoulder,  in  the  white  breast, 
half-hidden  by  the  fold  of  her  robe,  in  the  crossed, 
silk-clad  ankles.  All  the  world  seemed  beautiful  to- 
night, and  she  beautiful  with  the  rest. 

Three  days  later  she  came  downstairs,  at  five  o'clock 
on  a  gloomy,  dark  afternoon,  in  search  of  firelight  and 
tea.  Emily  and  Kenneth,  Peter  Coleman  and  Mary 
Peacock,  who  were  staying  at  the  hotel  for  a  week  or 
two,  were  motoring.  The  original  plan  had  included 
Susan,  but  at  the  last  moment  Emily  had  been  discov- 
ered upstairs,  staring  undecidedly  out  of  the  window, 
humming  abstractedly. 

"Aren't  you  coming,  Em?"  Susan  had  asked,  find- 
ing her. 

"I — I  don't  believe  I  will,"  Emily  said  lightly,  with- 
out turning.  "Go  on,  don't  wait  for  me !  It's  noth- 
ing," she  had  persisted,  when  Susan  questioned  her. 
"Nothing  at  all!  At  least,"  the  truth  came  out  at 
last,  "at  least,  I  think  it  looks  odd.  So  now  go  on, 
without  me,"  said  Emily. 

"What  looks  odd?" 

"Nothing  does,  I  tell  you!     Please  go  on." 

"You  mean,  three  girls  and  two  men,"  Susan  said 
slowly. 

Emily  assented  by  silence. 

"Well,  then,  you  go  and  I'll  stay,"  Susan  said,  in 
annoyance,  "but  it's  perfect  rubbish!" 

"No,  you  go,"  Emily  said,  pettishly. 

Susan  went,  perhaps  six  feet;  turned  back. 

"I  wish  you'd  go,"  she  said,  in  dissatisfaction. 

"If  I  did,"  Emily  said,  in  a  low,  quiet  tone,  still 
looking  out  of  the  window,  "it  would  be  simply  because 
of  the  looks  of  things !" 

"Well,  go  because  of  the  looks  of  things  then!" 
Susan  agreed  cheerfully. 

"No,  but  you  see,"  Emily  said  eagerly,  turning 
around,  "it  does  look  odd — not  to  me,  of  course!  But 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  291 

I  mean  odd  to  other  people  if  you  go  and  I  don't — 
don't  you  think  so,  Sue?" 

"Ye-es,"  drawled  Susan,  with  a  sort  of  bored  and 
exasperated  sigh.  And  she  went  to  her  own  room  to 
write  letters,  not  disappointed,  but  irritated  so  thor- 
oughly that  she  could  hardly  control  her  thoughts. 

At  five  o'clock,  dressed  in  a  childish  black  velvet 
gown — her  one  pretty  house  gown — with  the  deep  em- 
broidered collar  and  cuffs  that  were  so  becoming  to 
her,  and  with  her  hair  freshly  brushed  and  swept  back 
simply  from  her  face,  she  came  downstairs  for  a  cup 
of  tea. 

And  in  the  library,  sunk  into  a  deep  chair  before 
the  fire,  she  found  Stephen  Bocqueraz,  his  head  rest- 
ing against  the  back  of  the  chair,  his  knees  crossed  and 
his  finger-tips  fitted  together.  Susan's  heart  began  to 
race. 

He  got  up  and  they  shook  hands,  and  stood  for  too 
long  a  moment  looking  at  each  other.  The  sense  of 
floating — floating — losing  her  anchorage — began  to 
make  Susan's  head  spin.  She  sat  down,  opposite  him, 
as  he  took  his  chair  again,  but  her  breath  was  coming 
too  short  to  permit  of  speech. 

"Upon  my  word  I  thought  the  woman  said  that  you 
were  all  out!"  said  Bocqueraz,  appreciative  eyes  upon 
her,  "I  hardly  hoped  for  a  piece  of  luck  like  this!" 

"Well,  they  are,  you  know.  I'm  not,  strictly  speak' 
ing,  a  Saunders,"  smiled  Susan. 

"No;  you're  nobody  but  yourself,"  he  agreed,  fol« 
lowing  a  serious  look  with  his  sudden,  bright  smile. 
"You're  a  very  extraordinary  woman,  Mamselle 
Suzanne,"  he  went  on  briskly,  "and  I've  got  a  nice 
little  plan  all  ready  to  talk  to  you  about.  One  of  these 
days  Mrs.  Bocqueraz — she's  a  wonderful  woman  for 
this  sort  of  thing! — shall  write  to  your  aunt,  or  who- 
ever is  in  loco  parentis,  and  you  shall  come  on  to 

New  York  for  a  visit.  And  while  you're  there " 

He  broke  off,  raised  his  eyes  from  a  study  of  the  fire, 


292  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

and  again  sent  her  his  sudden  and  sweet  and  most 
disturbing  smile. 

"Oh,  don't  talk  about  it!"  said  Susan.  "It's  too 
good  to  be  true!" 

"Nothing's  too  good  to  be  true,"  he  answered. 
"Once  or  twice  before  it's  been  my  extraordinary  good 
fortune  to  find  a  personality,  and  give  it  a  push  in  the 
right  direction.  You'll  find  the  world  kind  enough  to 
you — Lillian  will  see  to  it  that  you  meet  a  few  of  the 
right  people,  and  you'll  do  the  rest.  And  how  you'll 
love  it,  and  how  they'll  love  you!"  He  jumped  up. 
"However,  I'm  not  going  to  spoil  you,"  he  said,  smil- 
ingly. 

He  went  to  one  of  the  bookcases  and  presently  came 
back  to  read  to  her  from  Phillips'  "Paolo  and  Fran- 
cesca,"  and  from  "The  Book  and  the  Ring."  And 
never  in  later  life  did  Susan  read  either  without  hear- 
ing his  exquisite  voice  through  the  immortal  lines: 

""A  ring  without  a  poesy,  and  that  ring  mine? 
O  Lyric  Love!  .  .  ." 

"O  Lord  of  Rimini,  with  tears  we  leave  her,  as  we  leave  a 

child, 
Be  gentle  with  her,  even  as  God  has  been.  .  .  ." 

"Some  day  I'll  read  you  Pompilia,  little  Suzanne," 
said  Bocqueraz.  "Do  you  know  Pompilia?  Do  you 
know  Alice  Meynell  and  some  of  Patmore's  stuff,  and 
the 'Dread  of  Height'?" 

"I  don't  know  anything,"  said  Susan,  feeling  it  true. 

"Well,"  he  said  gaily,  "we'll  read  them  all!" 

Susan  presently  poured  his  tea;  her  guest  wheeling 
his  great  leather  chair  so  that  its  arm  touched  the 
arm  of  her  own. 

"You  make  me  feel  all  thumbs,  watching  me  so!" 
she  protested. 

"I  like  to  watch  you,"  he  answered  undisturbed. 
"Here,  we'll  put  this  plate  on  the  arm  of  my  chair, — 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  29S 

so.  Then  we  can  both  use  it.  Your  scones  on  that 
side,  and  mine  on  this,  and  my  butter-knife  between 
the  two,  like  Prosper  Le  Gai's  sword,  eh?" 

Susan's  color  heightened  suddenly;  she  frowned.  He 
was  a  man  of  the  world,  of  course,  and  a  married 
man,  and  much  older  than  she,  but  somehow  she  didn't 
like  it.  She  didn't  like  the  laughter  in  his  eyes.  There 
had  been  just  a  hint  of  this — this  freedom,  in  his  speech 
a  few  nights  ago,  but  somehow  in  Billy's  presence  it 
had  seemed  harmless 

"And  why  the  blush?"  he  was  askingly  negligently, 
yet  watching  her  closely,  as  if  he  rather  enjoyed  her 
confusion. 

"You  know  why,"  Susan  said,  meeting  his  eyes  with 
a  little  difficulty. 

"I  know  why.  But  that's  nothing  to  blush  at. 
Analyze  it.  What  is  there  in  that  to  embarrass  you?'* 

"I  don't  know,"  Susan  said,  awkwardly,  feeling  very 
young. 

"Life  is  a  very  beautiful  thing,  my  child,"  he  said^ 
almost  as  if  he  were  rebuking  her,  "and  the  closer  we 
come  to  the  big  heart  of  life  the  more  wonderful 
things  we  find.  No — no — don't  let  the  people  about 
you  make  you  afraid  of  life."  He  finished  his  cup  of 
tea,  and  she  poured  him  another.  "I  think  it's  time 
to  transplant  you,"  he  said  then,  pleasantly,  "and  since 
last  night  I've  been  thinking  of  a  very  delightful  and 
practical  way  to  do  it.  Lillian — Mrs.  Bocqueraz  has 
a  very  old  friend  in  New  York  in  Mrs.  Gifford  Curtis 
— no,  you  don't  know  the  name  perhaps,  but  she's  a 
very  remarkable  woman — an  invalid.  All  the  world 
goes  to  her  teas  and  dinners,  all  the  world  has  been 
going  there  since  Booth  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  Pattl 
— when  she  was  in  her  prime! — spent  whole  Sunday 
afternoons  singing  to  her !  You'll  meet  everyone  who's 
at  all  worth  while  there  now,  playwrights,  and  painters, 
and  writers,  and  musicians.  Her  daughters  are  all 
married  to  prominent  men;  one  lives  in  Paris,  one  in 
London,  two  near  her;  friends  keep  coming  and  going. 


294  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

It's  a  wonderful  family.  Well,  there's  a  Miss  Con- 
cannon  who's  been  with  her  as  a  sort  of  companion  for 
twenty  years,  but  Miss  Concannon  isn't  young,  and  she 
confided  to  me  a  few  months  ago  that  she  needed  an 
assistant, — someone  to  pour  tea  and  write  notes  and 
play  accompaniments " 

"A  sort  of  Julie  le  Breton?"  said  Susan,  with  spark- 
ling eyes.  She  resolved  to  begin  piano  practice  for 
two  hours  a  day  to-morrow. 

"I  beg  pardon?  Yes — yes,  exactly,  so  I'm  going 
to  write  Lillian  at  once,  and  she'll  put  the  wheels  in 
motion!" 

"I  don't  know  what  good  angel  ever  made  you  think 
of  me,"  said  Susan. 

"Don't  you?"  the  man  asked,  in  a  low  tone.  There 
was  a  pause.  Both  stared  at  the  fire.  Suddenly 
Bocqueraz  cleared  his  throat. 

"Well!"  he  said,  jumping  up,  "if  this  clock  is  right 
it's  after  half-past  six.  Where  are  these  good  peo- 
ple?" 

"Here  they  are — there's  the  car  coming  in  the  gate 
now!"  Susan  said  in  relief.  She  ran  out  to  the  steps 
to  meet  them. 

A  day  or  two  later,  as  she  was  passing  Ella's  half- 
open  doorway,  Ella's  voice  floated  out  into  the  hall. 

"That  you,  Susan?  Come  in.  Will  you  do  your 
fat  friend  a  favor?"  Ella,  home  again,  had  at  once 
resumed  her  despotic  control  of  the  household.  She 
was  lying  on  a  couch  at  this  moment,  lazily  waving  a 
scribbled  half  sheet  of  paper  over  her  head. 

"Take  this  to  Mrs.  Pullet,  Sue,"  said  she,  "and  ask 
her  to  tell  the  cook,  in  some  confidential  moment,  that 
there  are  several  things  written  down  here  that  he 
seems  to  have  forgotten  the  existence  of.  I  want  to 
see  them  on  the  table,  from  time  to  time.  While  I  was 
with  the  Crewes  I  was  positively  mortified  at  the  mem- 
ory of  our  meals !  And  from  now  on,  while  Mr.  Boc- 
queraz's  here,  we'll  be  giving  two  dinners  a  week." 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  295 

"While ?"  Susan  felt  a  delicious,  a  terrifying 

weakness  run  like  a  wave  from  head  to  feet. 

"He's  going  to  be  here  for  a  month  or  two !"  Ella 
announced  complacently.  "It  was  all  arranged  last 
night.  I  almost  fell  off  my  feet  when  he  proposed  it. 
He  says  he's  got  some  work  to  finish  up,  and  he  thinks 
the  atmosphere  here  agrees  with  him.  Kate  Stanlaws 
turned  a  lovely  pea-green,  for  they  were  trying  to  get 
him  to  go  with  them  to  Alaska.  He'll  have  the  room 
next  to  Mamma's,  with  the  round  porch,  and  the  big 
room  off  the  library  for  a  study.  I  had  them  clear 
everything  out  of  it,  and  Ken's  going  to  send  over  a 
desk,  and  chair,  and  so  on.  And  do  try  to  do  every- 
thing you  can  to  make  him  comfortable,  Sue.  Mam- 
ma's terribly  pleased  that  he  wants  to  come,"  finished 
Ella,  making  a  long  arm  for  her  novel,  "But  of  course 
he  and  I  made  an  instant  hit  with  each  other!" 

"Oh,  of  course  I  will !"  Susan  promised.  She  went 
away  with  her  list,  pleasure  and  excitement  and  a  sort 
of  terror  struggling  together  in  her  heart. 

Pleasure  prevailed,  however,  when  Stephen  Boc- 
queraz  was  really  established  at  "High  Gardens,"  and 
the  first  nervous  meeting  was  safely  over.  Everybody 
in  the  house  was  the  happier  and  brighter  for  his 
coming,  and  Susan  felt  it  no  sin  to  enjoy  him  with  the 
rest.  Meal  times  became  very  merry;  the  tea-hour, 
when  he  would  come  across  the  hall  from  his  work- 
room, tired,  relaxed,  hungry,  was  often  the  time  of  pro- 
longed and  delightful  talks,  and  on  such  evenings  as 
Ella  left  her  cousin  free  of  dinner  engagements,  even 
Emily  had  to  admit  that  his  reading,  under  the  draw- 
ing-room lamp,  was  a  rare  delight. 

Sometimes  he  gave  himself  a  half-holiday,  and  joined 
Emily  and  Susan  in  their  driving  or  motoring.  On 
almost  every  evening  that  he  did  not  dine  at  home 
he  was  downstairs  in  time  for  a  little  chat  with  Susan 
over  the  library  fire.  They  were  never  alone  very 
long,  but  they  had  a  dozen  brief  encounters  every  day, 
exchanged  a  dozen  quick,  significant  glances  across  the 


296  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

breakfast  table,  or  over  the  book  that  he  was  reading 
aloud. 

Susan  lived  in  a  dazed,  wide-eyed  state  of  reason- 
less excitement  and  perilous  delight.  It  was  all  so 
meaningless,  she  assured  her  pretty  vision  in  the  mir- 
ror, as  she  arranged  her  bright  hair, — the  man  was 
married,  and  most  happily  married;  he  was  older  than 
she;  he  was  a  man  of  honor!  And  she,  Susan  Brown, 
was  only  playing  this  fascinating  game  exceptionally 
well.  She  had  never  flirted  before  and  had  been  rather 
proud  of  it.  Well,  she  was  flirting  now,  and  proud  of 
that,  too  1  She  was  quite  the  last  girl  in  the  world  to  fall 
seriously  in  love,  with  her  eyes  wide  open,  in  so  ex- 
tremely undesirable  a  direction !  This  was  not  falling 
in  love  at  all.  Stephen  Bocqueraz  spoke  of  his  wife 
half  a  dozen  times  a  day.  Susan,  on  her  part,  found 
plenty  of  things  about  him  to  dislike!  But  he  was 
clever,  and — yes,  and  fascinating,  and  he  admired  her 
immensely,  and  there  was  no  harm  done  so  far,  and 
none  to  be  done.  Why  try  to  define  the  affair  by  cut- 
and-dried  rules;  it  was  quite  different  from  anything 
that  had  ever  happened  before,  it  stood  in  a  class  quite 
by  itself. 

The  intangible  bond  between  them  strengthened 
every  day.  Susan,  watching  him  when  Ella's  friends 
gathered  about  him,  watching  the  honest  modesty  with 
which  he  evaded  their  empty  praises,  their  attempts  at 
lionizing,  could  not  but  thrill  to  know  that  her  praise 
stirred  him,  that  the  deprecatory,  indifferent  air  was 
dropped  quickly  enough  for  her!  It  was  intoxicating 
to  know,  as  she  did  know,  that  he  was  thinking,  as 
she  was,  of  what  they  would  say  when  they  next  had  a 
moment- together;  that,  whatever  she  wore,  he  found 
her  worth  watching;  that,  whatever  her  mood,  she 
never  failed  to  amuse  and  delight  him  I  Her  rather 
evasive  beauty  grew  more  definite  under  his  eyes;  she 
bubbled  with  fun  and  nonsense.  "You  little  fool !"  Ella 
would  laugh,  with  an  approving  glance  toward  Susan 
at  the  tea-table,  and  "Honestly,  Sue,  you  were  killing  to- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  297 

night!"     Emily,  who  loved  to  be  amused,  said  more 
than  once. 

One  day  Miss  Brown  was  delegated  to  carry  a  mes- 
sage to  Mr.  Bocqueraz  in  his  study.  Mrs.  Saunders 
was  sorry  to  interrupt  his  writing,  but  a  very  dear  old 
friend  was  coming  to  dinner  that  evening,  and  would 
Cousin  Stephen  come  into  the  drawing-room  for  a  mo- 
ment, before  he  and  Ella  went  out? 

Susan  tripped  demurely  to  the  study  door  and 
rapped. 

"Come  in!"  a  voice  shouted.  Susan  turned  the 
knob,  and  put  her  head  into  the  room.  Mr.  Bocqueraz, 
writing  at  a  large  table  by  the  window,  and  facing 
the  door  across  its  shining  top,  flung  down  his  pen,  and 
stretched  back  luxuriously  in  his  chair. 

"Well,  well !"  said  he,  smiling  and  blinking.  "Come 
in,  Susanna!" 

"Mrs.  Saunders  wanted  me  to  ask  you " 

"But  come  in!  I've  reached  a  tight  corner;  couldn't 
get  any  further  anyway !"  He  pushed  away  his  papers. 
"There  are  days,  you  know,  when  you're  not  even  on 
bowing  acquaintance  with  your  characters." 

He  looked  so  genial,  so  almost  fatherly,  so  con- 
tentedly lazy,  leaning  back  in  his  big  chair,  the  winter 
sunshine  streaming  in  the  window  behind  him,  and  a 
dozen  jars  of  fragrant  winter  flowers  making  the  whole 
room  sweet,  that  Susan  came  in,  unhesitatingly.  It 
was  the  mood  of  all  his  moods  that  she  liked  best; 
interested,  interesting,  impersonal. 

"But  I  oughtn't — you're  writing,"  said  Susan,  tak- 
ing a  chair  across  the  table  from  him,  and  laying  bold 
hands  on  his  manuscript,  nevertheless.  "What  a  dar- 
ling hand  you  write!"  she  observed,  "and  what  enor- 
mous margins.  Oh,  I  see,  you  write  notes  in  the  mar- 
gins— corrections  ?" 

"Exactly!"  He  was  watching  her  between  half- 
closed  lids,  with  lazy  pleasure. 

"  'the  only,'  in  a  loop,"  said  Susan,  "that's  not  much 


298  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

of  a  note!  I  could  have  written  that  myself,"  she 
added,  eying  him  sideways  through  a  film  of  drifting 
hair. 

"Very  well,  write  anything  you  like!"  he  offered 
amusedly. 

"Oh,  honestly?"  asked  Susan  with  dancing  eyes. 
And,  at  his  nod,  she  dipped  a  pen  in  the  ink,  and  began 
to  read  the  story  with  a  serious  scowl. 

"Here!"  she  said  suddenly,  "this  isn't  at  all  sensi- 
ble !"  And  she  read  aloud : 

"So  crystal  clear  was  the  gaze  with  which  he  met  her  own, 
that  she  was  aware  of  an  immediate  sense,  a  vaguely  alarming 
sense,  that  her  confidence  must  be  made  with  concessions  not 
only  to  what  he  had  told  her — and  told  her  so  exquisitely  as  to 
indicate  his  knowledge  of  other  facts  from  which  those  he 
chose  to  reveal  were  deliberately  selected — but  also  to  what  he 
had  not — surely  the  most  significant  detail  of  the  whole  signifi- 
cant episode — so  chosen  to  reveal!" 

"Oh,  I  see  what  it  means,  when  I  read  it  aloud," 
said  Susan,  cheerfully  honest.  "But  at  first  it  didn't 
seem  to  make  sense!" 

"Go  ahead.     Fix  it  anyway  you  like." 

"Well "  Susan  dimpled.  "Then  I'll— let's  see 

— I'll  put  'surely'  after  'also,'  "  she  announced,  "and 
end  it  up,  'to  what  he  had  not  so  chosen  to  reveal!' 
Don't  you  think  that's  better?" 

"Clearer,  certainly. — On  that  margin,  Baby." 

"And  will  you  really  let  it  stay  that  way?"  asked 
the  baby,  eying  the  altered-  page  with  great  satisfac- 
tion. 

"Oh,  really.     You  will  see  it  so  in  the  book." 

His  quiet  certainty  that  these  scattered  pages  would 
surely  be  a  book  some  day  thrilled  Susan,  as  power 
always  thrilled  her.  Just  as  she  had  admired  Thorny's 
old  scribbled  prices,  years  before,  so  she  admired  this 
quiet  mastery  now.  She  asked  Stephen  Bocqueraz 
questions,  and  he  told  her  of  his  boyhood  dreams,  of 
the  early  struggles  in  the  big  city,  of  the  first  success. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  299 

"One  hundred  dollars  for  a  story,  Susan.  It  looked 
a  little  fortune!" 

"And  were  you  married  then?" 

"Married?"  He  smiled.  "My  dear  child,  Mrs. 
Bocqueraz  is  worth  almost  a  million  dollars  in  her  own 
right.  No — we  have  never  faced  poverty  together!" 
There  was  almost  a  wistful  look  in  his  eyes. 

"And  to  whom  is  this  book  going  to  be  dedicated?" 
asked  Susan. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  Lillian  has  two,  and  Julie  has 
one  or  two,  and  various  men,  here  and  in  London. 
Perhaps  I'll  dedicate  this  one  to  a  bold  baggage  of 
an  Irish  girl.  Would  you  like  that?" 

"Oh,  you  couldn't!"  Susan  said,  frightened. 

"Why  couldn't  I?" 

"Because, — I'd  rather  you  wouldn't!  I — and  it 
would  look  odd!"  stammered  Susan. 

"Would  you  care,  if  it  did?"  he  asked,  with  that 
treacherous  sudden  drop  in  his  voice  that  always  stirred 
her  heart  so  painfully. 

"No-o "  Susan  answered,  scarcely  above  a 

whisper. 

"What  are  you  afraid  of,  little  girl?"  he  asked, 
putting  his  hand  over  hers  on  the  desk. 

Susan  moved  her  hand  away. 

"Because,  your  wife "  she  began  awkwardly, 

turning  a  fiery  red. 

Bocqueraz  abruptly  left  his  seat,  and  walked  to  a 
window. 

"Susan,"  he  said,  coming  back,  after  a  moment, 
"have  I  ever  done  anything  to  warrant — to  make  you 
distrust  me?" 

"No, — never!"  said  Susan  heartily,  ashamed  of  her- 
self. 

"Friends?"  he  asked,  gravely.  And  with  his  sud- 
den smile  he  put  his  two  hands  out,  across  the  desk. 

It  was  like  playing  with  fire;  she  knew  it.  But  Susan 
felt  herself  quite  equal  to  anyone  at  playing  with  fire. 

"Friends!"   she   laughed,   gripping  his  hands  with 


300  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

hers.  "And  now,"  she  stood  up,  "really  I  mustn't 
interrupt  you  any  longer!" 

"But  wait  a  moment,"  he  said.  "Come  see  what  a 
pretty  vista  I  get — right  across  the  Japanese  garden 
to  the  woods!" 

"The  same  as  we  do  upstairs,"  Susan  said.  But  she 
went  to  stand  beside  him  at  the  window. 

"No,"  said  Stephen  Bocqueraz  presently,  quietly  tak- 
ing up  the  thread  of  the  interrupted  conversation,  "I 
won't  dedicate  my  book  to  you,  Susan,  but  some  day 
I'll  write  you  a  book  of  your  own !  I  have  been  wish- 
ing," he  added  soberly,  his  eyes  on  the  little  curved 
bridge  and  the  dwarfed  shrubs,  the  pond  and  the  step- 
ping-stones across  the  garden,  "I  have  been  wishing 
that  I  never  had  met  you,  my  dear.  I  knew,  years  ago, 
in  those  hard,  early  days  of  which  I've  been  telling  you, 
that  you  were  somewhere,  but — but  I  didn't  wait  for 
you,  Susan,  and  now  I  can  do  no  more  than  wish  you 
God-speed,  and  perhaps  give  you  a  helping  hand  upon 
your  way!  That's  all  I  wanted  to  say." 

"I'm — I'm  not  going  to  answer  you,"  said  SusanT 
steadily,  composedly. 

Side  by  side  they  looked  out  of  the  window,  for  an- 
other moment  or  two,  then  Bocqueraz  turned  suddenly 
and  catching  her  hands  in  his,  asked  almost  gaily : 

"Well,  this  is  something,  at  least,  isn't  it — to  be 
good  friends,  and  to  have  had  this  much  of  each 
other?" 

"Surely!  A  lot!"  Susan  answered,  in  smiling  re- 
lief. And  a  moment  later  she  had  delivered  her  mes- 
sage, and  was  gone,  and  he  had  seated  himself  at  his 
work  again. 

How  much  was  pretense  and  how  much  serious 
earnest,  on  his  part,  she  wondered.  How  much  was 
real  on  her  own?  Not  one  bit  of  it,  said  Susan,  fresh 
from  her  bath,  in  the  bracing  cool  winter  morning, 
and  walking  briskly  into  town  for  the  mail.  Not — 
not  much  of  it,  anyway,  she  decided  when  tea-time 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  301 

brought  warmth  and  relaxation,  the  leaping  of  fire-light 
against  the  library  walls,  the  sound  of  the  clear  and 
cultivated  voice. 

But  what  was  the  verdict  later,  when  Susan,  bare- 
armed  and  bare-shouldered,  with  softened  light  strik- 
ing brassy  gleams  from  her  hair,  and  the  perfumed 
dimness  and  silence  of  the  great  house  impressing  every 
sense,  paused  for  a  message  from  Stephen  Bocqueraz 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  or  warmed  her  shining  little 
slipper  at  the  fire,  while  he  watched  her  from  the  chair 
not  four  feet  away? 

When  she  said  "I — I'm  not  going  to  answer  you," 
in  the  clear,  bright  morning  light,  Susan  was  enjoy- 
ably  aware  of  the  dramatic  value  of  the  moment;  when 
she  evaded  Bocqueraz's  eye  throughout  an  entire 
luncheon  she  did  it  deliberately;  it  was  a  part  of  the 
cheerful,  delightful  game  it  pleased  them  both  to  be 
playing. 

But  not  all  was  posing,  not  all  was  pretense.  Na- 
ture, now  and  then,  treacherously  slipped  in  a  real 
thrill,  where  only  play-acting  was  expected.  Susan, 
laughing  at  the  memory  of  some  sentimental  fencing, 
was  sometimes  caught  unaware  by  a  little  pang  of 
regret;  how  blank  and  dull  life  would  be  when  this 
casual  game  was  over!  After  all,  he  was  the  great 
writer;  before  the  eyes  of  all  the  world,  even  this  pre- 
tense at  an  intimate  friendship  was  a  feather  in  her 
cap! 

And  he  did  not  attempt  to  keep  their  rapidly  devel- 
oping friendship  a  secret;  Susan  was  alternately  grati- 
fied and  terrified  by  the  reality  of  his  allusions  to  her 
before  outsiders.  No  playing  here !  Everybody  knew, 
in  their  little  circle,  that,  in  the  nicest  and  most  elder- 
brotherly  way  possible,  Stephen  Bocqueraz  thought 
Susan  Brown  the  greatest  fun  in  the  world,  and  quoted 
her,  and  presented  her  with  his  autographed  books. 
This  side  of  the  affair,  being  real,  had  a  tendency  to 
make  it  all  seem  real,  and  sometimes  confused,  and 
sometimes  a  little  frightened  Susan. 


302  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"That  a  woman  of  Emily's  mental  caliber  can  hire 
a  woman  of  yours,  for  a  matter  of  dollars  and  cents," 
he  said  to  Susan  whimsically,  "is  proof  that  something 
is  radically  wrong  somewhere!  Well,  some  day  we'll 
put  you  where  values  are  a  little  different.  Anybody 
can  be  rich.  Mighty  few  can  be  Susan!" 

She  did  not  believe  everything  he  said,  of  course,  or 
take  all  his  chivalrous  speeches  quite  seriously.  But 
obviously,  some  of  it  was  said  in  all  honesty,  she 
thought,  or  why  should  he  take  the  trouble  to  say  it? 
And  the  nearness  of  his  bracing  personality  blew  across 
the  artificial  atmosphere  in  which  she  lived  like  the 
cool  breath  of  great  moors  or  of  virgin  forests. 
Genius  and  work  and  success  became  the  real  things 
of  life;  money  but  a  mere  accident.  A  horrible  sense 
of  the  unreality  of  everything  that  surrounded  her  be- 
gan to  oppress  Susan.  She  saw  the  poisoned  under- 
current of  this  glittering  and  exquisite  existence,  the 
selfishness,  the  cruelties,  the  narrowness.  She  saw  its 
fundamental  insincerity.  In  a  world  where  wrongs 
were  to  be  righted,  and  ignorance  enlightened,  and 
childhood  sheltered  and  trained,  she  began  to  think  it 
strange  that  strong,  and  young,  and  wealthy  men  and 
women  should  be  content  to  waste  enormous  sums  of 
money  upon  food  to  which  they  scarcely  ever  brought 
a  normal  appetite,  upon  bridge-prizes  for  guests  whose 
interest  in  them  scarcely  survived  the  moment  of  un- 
wrapping the  dainty  beribboned  boxes  in  which  they 
came,  upon  costly  toys  for  children  whose  nurseries 
were  already  crowded  with  toys.  She  wondered  that 
they  should  think  it  worth  while  to  spend  hours  and 
days  in  harassing  dressmakers  and  milliners,  to  make 
a  brief  appearance  in  the  gowns  they  were  so  quickly 
ready  to  discard,  that  they  should  gratify  every  pass- 
ing whim  so  instantly  that  all  wishes  died  together, 
like  little  plants  torn  up  too  soon. 

The  whole  seemed  wonderful  and  beautiful  still. 
But  the  parts  of  this  life,  seriously  analyzed,  seemed 
to  turn  to  dust  and  ashes.  Of  course,  a  hundred  little 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  303 

shop-girls  might  ache  with  envy  at  reading  that  Mrs. 
Harvey  Brock  was  to  give  her  debutante  daughter  a 
fancy-dress  ball,  costing  ten  thousand  dollars,  land 
might  hang  wistfully  over  the  pictures  of  Miss  Peggy 
Brock  in  her  Dresden  gown  with  her  ribbon-tied  crook; 
but  Susan  knew  that  Peggy  cried  and  scolded  the 
whole  afternoon,  before  the  dance,  because  Teddy  Rus- 
sell was  not  coming,  that  young  Martin  Brock  drank 
too  much  on  that  evening  and  embarrassed  his  entire 
family  before  he  could  be  gotten  upstairs,  and  that 
Mrs.  Brock  considered  the  whole  event  a  failure  be- 
cause some  favors,  for  which  she  had  cabled  to  Paris, 
did  not  come,  and  the  effect  of  the  german  was  lost. 
Somehow,  the  "lovely  and  gifted  heiress"  of  the  news- 
papers never  seemed  to  Susan  at  all  reconcilable  with 
Dolly  Ripley,  vapid,  overdressed,  with  diamonds  spark- 
ling about  her  sallow  throat,  and  the  "jolly  im- 
promptu" trip  of  the  St.  Johns  to  New  York  lost  its 
point  when  one  knew  it  was  planned  because  the  name 
of  young  Florence  St.  John  had  been  pointedly  omitted 
from  Ella  Saunders  dance  list. 

Boasting,  lying,  pretending — how  weary  Susan  got 
of  it  all!  She  was  too  well  schooled  to  smile  when 
Ella,  meeting  the  Honorable  Mary  Saunders  and  Sir 
Charles  Saunders,  of  London,  said  magnificently,  "We 
bear  the  same  arms,  Sir  Charles,  but  of  course  ours 
is  the  colonial  branch  of  the  family!"  and  she  nodded 
admiringly  at  Dolly  Ripley's  boyish  and  blunt  fashion 
of  saying  occasionally  "We  Ripleys, — oh,  we  drink 
and  gamble  and  do  other  things,  I  admit;  we're  not 
saints!  But  we  can't  lie,  you  know!" 

"I  hate  to  take  the  kiddies  to  New  York,  Mike," 
perhaps  some  young  matron  would  say  simply.  "Percy's 
family  is  one  of  the  old,  old  families  there,  you  know, 
shamelessly  rich,  and  terribly  exclusive !  And  one 
doesn't  want  the  children  to  take  themselves  seriously 
yet  awhile!" 

"Bluffers!"  the  smiling  and  interested  Miss  Brown 
would  say  to  herself,  as  she  listened.  She  listened  a 


304  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

great  deal;  everyone  was  willing  to  talk,  and  she  was 
often  amused  at  the  very  slight  knowledge  that  could 
carry  a  society  girl  through  a  conversation.  In  Hun- 
ter, Baxter  &  Hunter's  offices  there  would  be  instant 
challenges,  even  at  auntie's  table  affectation  met  its 
just  punishment,  and  inaccuracy  was  promptly  detected. 
But  there  was  no  such  censorship  here. 

"Looks  like  a  decent  little  cob!"  some  girl  would 
say,  staring  at  rider  passing  the  hotel  window,  at  tea- 
time. 

"Yes,"  another  voice  would  agree,  "good  points. 
Looks  thoroughbred." 

"Yes,  he  does !     Looks  like  a  Kentucky  mount." 

"Louisa !    Not  with  that  neck  1" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  My  grandfather  raised  fane) 
stock,  you  know.  Just  for  his  own  pleasure,  of  course, 
So  I  do  know  a  good  horse !" 

"Well,  but  he  steps  more  like  a  racer,"  somebody 
else  would  contribute. 

"That's  what  I  thought!  Loose-built  for  a  racer, 
though." 

"And  what  a  fool  riding  him — the  man  has  no 
seat!" 

"Oh,  absolutely  not!  Probably  a  groom,  but  it's 
a  shame  to  allow  it!" 

"Groom,  of  course.  But  you'll  never  see  a  groom 
riding  a  horse  of  mine  that  way!" 

"Rather  not!" 

And,  an  ordinary  rider,  on  a  stable  hack,  having  by 
this  time  passed  from  view,  the  subject  would  be 
changed. 

Or  perhaps  some  social  offense  would  absorb  every- 
body's attention  for  the  better  part  of  half-an-hour. 

"Look,  Emily,"  their  hostess  would  say,  during  a 
cstll,  "isn't  this  rich!  The  Bridges  have  had  their 
crest  put  on  their  mourning-stationery!  Don't  you 
love  it!  Mamma  says  that  the  girls  must  have  done 
it ;  the  old  lady  must  know  better !  Execrable  bad  taste, 
I  call  it." 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  305 

"Oh,  isn't  that  awful !"  Emily  would  inspect  the  sub- 
mitted letter  with  deep  amusement. 

"Oh,  Mary,  let's  see  it — I  don't  believe  it!"  some- 
body else  would  exclaim. 

"Poor  things,  and  they  try  so  hard  to  do  every- 
thing right!"  Kindly  pity  would  soften  the  tones  of  a 
fourth  speaker. 

"But  you  know  Mary,  they  do  do  that  in  England," 
somebody  might  protest. 

"Oh,  Peggy,  rot!     Of  course  they  don't!" 

"Why,  certainly  they  do!"  A  little  feeling  would 
be  rising.  "When  Helen  and  I  were  in  London  we  had 
some  friends " 

"Nonsense,  Peggy,  it's  terribly  vulgar!  I  know 
because  Mamma's  cousin " 

"Oh  honestly,  Peggy,  it's  never  done!" 

"I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!" 

"You  might  use  your  crest  in  black,  Peg,  but  in 
color !" 

"Just  ask  any  engraver,  Peg.  I  know  when  Frances 
was  sending  to  England  for  our  correct  quarterings, — 
they'd  been  changed " 

"But  I  tell  you  I  know,"  Miss  Peggy  would  say 
angrily.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you'd  take  the 
word  of  a  stationer " 


"A  herald.     You  can't  call  that  a  stationer- 


"Well,  then  a  herald!    What  do  they  know?" 

"Why,  of  course  they  know!"  shocked  voices  would 
protest.  "It's  their  business !" 

"Well,"  the  defender  of  the  Bridges  would  continue 
loftily,  "all  I  can  say  is  that  Alice  and  I  saw  it -" 

"I  know  that  when  we  were  in  London,"  some 
pleasant,  interested  voice  would  interpose,  modestly, 
"our  friends — Lord  and  Lady  Merridew,  they  were, 
you  know,  and  Sir  Henry  Phillpots — they  were  in 
mourning,  and  they  didn't.  But  of  course  I  don't 
know  what  other  people,  not  nobility,  that  is,  might 
do!" 

And  of  course  this  crushing  conclusion  admitted  of 


306  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

no  answer.    But  Miss  Peggy  might  say  to  Susan  later, 
with  a  bright,  pitying  smile: 

"Alice  will  roar  when  I  tell  her  about  this!  Lord 
and  Lady  Merridew, — that's  simply  delicious  I  I  love 
it!" 

"Bandar-log,"  Bocqueraz  called  them,  and  Susan 
often  thought  of  the  term  in  these  days.  From  com- 
plete disenchantment  she  was  saved,  however,  by  her . 
deepening  affection  for  Isabel  Wallace,  and,  whenever 
they  were  together,  Susan  had  to  admit  that  a  more 
lovely  personality  had  never  been  developed  by  any 
environment  or  in  any  class.  Isabel,  fresh,  unspoiled, 
eager  to  have  everyone  with  whom  she  came  in  con- 
tact as  enchanted  with  life  as  she  was  herself,  devel- 
oped a  real  devotion  for  Susan,  and  showed  it  in  a 
hundred  ways.  If  Emily  was  away  for  a  night,  Isabel 
was  sure  to  come  and  carry  Susan  off  for  as  many 
hours  as  possible  to  the  lovely  Wallace  home.  They 
had  long,  serious  talks  together;  Susan  did  not  know 
whether  to  admire  or  envy  most  Isabel's  serene  hap- 
piness in  her  engagement,  the  most  brilliant  engage- 
ment of  the  winter,  and  Isabel's  deeper  interest  in  her 
charities,  her  tender  consideration  of  her  invalid 
mother,  her  flowers,  her  plan  for  the  small  brothers. 

"John  is  wonderful,  of  course,"  Isabel  would  agree 
in  a  smiling  aside  to  Susan  when,  furred  and  glowing, 
she  had  brought  her  handsome  big  lover  into  the 
Saunders'  drawing-room  for  a  cup  of  tea,  "but  I've 
been  spoiled  all  my  life,  Susan,  and  I'm  afraid  he's 

going  right  on  with  it!    And "  Isabel's  lovely  eyes 

would  be  lighted  with  an  ardent  glow,  "and  I  want  to 
do  something  with  my  life,  Sue,  something  big,  in  re- 
turn for  it  all!" 

Again,  Susan  found  herself  watching  with  curious 
wistfulness  the  girl  who  had  really  had  an  offer  of 
marriage,  who  was  engaged,  openly  adored  and  de- 
sired. What  had  he  said  to  her — and  she  to  him — 
what  emotions  crossed  their  hearts  when  they  went  to 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  307 

watch  the  building  of  the  beautiful  home  that  was  to  be 
theirs? 

A  man  and  a  woman — a  man  and  a  woman — loving 
and  marrying — what  a  miracle  the  familiar  aspects 
of  approaching  marriage  began  to  seem!  In  these 
days  Susan  read  old  poems  with  a  thrill,  read  "Trilby5* 
again,  and  found  herself  trembling,  read  "Adam 
Bede,"  and  shut  the  book  with  a  thundering  heart. 
She  went,  with  the  others,  to  "Faust,"  and  turned  to 
Stephen  Bocqueraz  a  pale,  tense  face,  and  eyes  brim- 
ming with  tears. 

The  writer's  study,  beyond  the  big  library,  had  a 
fascination  for  her.  At  least  once  a  day  she  looked  in 
upon  him  there,  sometimes  with  Emily,  sometimes  with 
Ella,  never,  after  that  first  day,  alone. 

"You  can  see  that  he's  perfectly  devoted  to  that 
dolly-faced  wife  of  his!"  Ella  said,  half-contemptu- 
ously.  "I  think  we  all  bore  him,"  Emily  said.  "Ste- 
phen is  a  good  and  noble  man,"  said  his  wife's  old 
•cousin.  Susan  never  permitted  herself  to  speak  of 
him.  "Don't  you  like  him?"  asked  Isabel.  "He  seems 
crazy  about  you !  I  think  you're  terribly  fine  to  be  so 
indifferent  about  it,  Susan!" 

On  a  certain  December  evening  Emily  decided  that 
she  was  very  unwell,  and  must  have  a  trained  nurse. 
Susan,  who  had  stopped,  without  Emily,  at  the  Wal- 
laces' for  tea,  understood  perfectly  that  the  youngest 
Miss  Saunders  was  delicately  intimating  that  she  ex- 
pected a  little  more  attention  from  her  companion.  A 
few  months  ago  she  would  have  risen  to  the  occasion 
with  the  sort  of  cheerful  flattery  that  never  failed  in  its 
effect  on  Emily,  but  to-night  a  sort  of  stubborn  irrita- 
tion kept  her  lips  sealed,  and  in  the  end  she  telephoned 
for  the  nurse  Emily  fancied,  a  Miss  Watts,  who  had 
been  taking  care  of  one  of  Emily's  friends. 

Miss  Watts,  effusive  and  solicitous,  arrived,  and 
Susan  could  see  that  Emily  was  repenting  of  her  bar- 
gain long  before  she,  Susan,  had  dressed  for  dinner. 


SOS  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

But  she  ran  downstairs  with  a  singing  heart,  never- 
theless. Ella  was  to  bring  two  friends  in  for  cards, 
immediately  after  dinner;  Kenneth  had  not  been  home 
for  three  days;  Miss  Baker  was  in  close  attendance 
upon  Mrs.  Saunders,  who  had  retired  to  her  room 
before  dinner;  so  Susan  and  Stephen  were  free  to 
dine  alone.  Susan  had  hesitated,  in  the  midst  of  her 
dressing,  over  the  consideration  of  a  gown,  and  had 
finally  compromised  with  her  conscience  by  deciding 
upon  quite  the  oldest,  plainest,  shabbiest  black  silk  in 
the  little  collection. 

"Most  becoming  thing  you  ever  put  on !"  said  Emily, 
trying  to  reestablish  quite  cordial  relations. 

"I  know,"  Susan  agreed  guiltily. 

When  she  and  Stephen  Bocqueraz  came  back  into  one 
of  the  smaller  drawing-rooms  after  dinner  Susan 
walked  to  the  fire  and  stood,  for  a  few  moments,  star- 
ing down  at  the  coals.  The  conversation  during  the 
softly  lighted,  intimate  little  dinner  had  brought  them 
both  to  a  dangerous  mood.  Susan  was  excited  beyond 
the  power  of  reasonable  thought.  It  was  all  nonsense, 
they  were  simply  playing;  he  was  a  married  man,  and 
she  a  woman  who  never  could  by  any  possibility  be 
anything  but  "good,"  she  would  have  agreed  impa- 
tiently and  gaily  with  her  own  conscience  if  she  had 
heard  it  at  all — but  just  now  she  felt  like  enjoying  this 
particular  bit  of  foolery  to  the  utmost,  and,  since  there 
was  really  no  harm  in  it,  she  was  going  to  enjoy  it! 
She  had  not  touched  wine  at  dinner,  but  some  subtler 
intoxication  had  seized  her,  she  felt  conscious  of  her 
own  beauty,  her  white  throat,  her  shining  hair,  her 
slender  figure  in  its  clinging  black,  she  felt  conscious 
of  Stephen's  eyes,  conscious  of  the  effective  background 
for  them  both  that  the  room  afforded;  the  dull  hang- 
ings, subdued  lights  and  softly  shining  surfaces. 

Her  companion  stood  near  her,  watching  her.  Susan, 
still  excitedly  confident  that  she  controlled  the  situation, 
began  to  feel  her  breath  come  deep  and  swift,  began 
to  wish  that  she  could  think  of  just  the  right  thing  to 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  309 

say,  to  relieve  the  tension  a  little — began  to  wish  that 
Ella  would  come  in 

She  raised  her  eyes,  a  little  frightened,  a  little  em- 
barrassed, to  his,  and  in  the  next  second  he  had  put 
his  arms  about  her  and  crushed  her  to  him  and  kissed 
her  on  the  mouth. 

"Susan,"  he  said,  very  quietly,  "you  are  my  girl — you 
are  my  girl,  will  you  let  me  take  care  of  you?  I  can't 
help  it — I  love  you." 

This  was  not  play-acting,  at  last.  A  grim,  an  almost 
terrible  earnestness  was  in  his  voice;  his  face  was  very 
pale;  his  eyes  dark  with  passion.  Susan,  almost  faint 
with  the  shock,  pushed  away  his  arms,  walked  a  few 
staggering  steps  and  stood,  her  back  turned  to  him,  one 
hand  over  her  heart,  the  other  clinging  to  the  back  of 
a  chair,  her  breath  coming  so  violently  that  her  whole 
body  shook. 

"Oh,  don't — don't — don't!"  she  said,  in  a  horrified 
and  frightened  whisper. 

"Susan" — he  began  eagerly,  coming  toward  her.  She 
turned  to  face  him,  and  breathing  as  if  she  had  been 
running,  and  in  simple  entreaty,  she  said : 

"Please — please — if  you  touch  me  again — if  you 
touch  rr;e  again — I  cannot — the  maids  will  hear — Bost- 
wick  will  hear " 

"No,  no,  no !  Don't  be  frightened,  dear,"  he  said 
quickly  and  soothingly.  "I  won't.  I  won't  do  any- 
thing you  don't  want  me  to!" 

Susan  pressed  her  hand  over  her  eyes;  her  knees  felt 
so  weak  that  she  was  afraid  to  move.  Her  breathing 
slowly  grew  more  even. 

"My  dear — if  you'll  forgive  me!"  the  man  said  re- 
pentantly. She  gave  him  a  weary  smile,  as  she  went 
to  drop  into  her  low  chair  before  the  fire. 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Bocqueraz,  I'm  to  blame,"  she  said 
quietly.  And  suddenly  she  put  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Listen,  Susan "  he  began  again.  But  again  she 

silenced  him. 


310  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Just — one — moment "  she  said  pleadingly. 

For  two  or  three  moments  there  was  silence. 

"No,  it's  my  fault,"  Susan  said  then,  more  com- 
posedly, pushing  her  hair  back  from  her  forehead  with 
both  hands,  and  raising  her  wretched  eyes.  "Oh,  how 
could  I — how  could  I !"  And  again  she  hid  her  face. 

Stephen  Bocqueraz  did  not  speak,  and  presently 
Susan  added,  with  a  sort  of  passion: 

"It  was  wicked,  and  it  was  common,  and  no  decent 
woman " 

"No,  you  shan't  take  that  tone!"  said  Bocqueraz, 
suddenly  looking  up  from  a  somber  study  of  the  fire. 
"It  is  true,  Susan,  and — and  I  can't  be  sorry  it  is.  It's 
the  truest  thing  in  the  world!" 

"Oh,  let's  not — let's  not  talk  that  way!"  All  that 
was  good  and  honest  in  her  came  to  Susan's  rescue  now, 
all  her  clean  and  honorable  heritage.  "We've  only 
been  fooling,  haven't  we?"  she  urged  eagerly.  "You 
know  we  have  !  Why,  you — you " 

"No,"  said  Bocqueraz,  "it's  too  big  now  to  be 
laughed  away,  Susan !"  He  came  and  knelt  beside  her 
chair  and  put  his  arm  about  her,  his  face  so  close  that 
Susan  could  lay  an  arresting  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
Her  heart  beat  madly,  her  senses  swam. 

"You  mustn't!"  said  Susan,  trying  to  force  her  voice 
above  a  hoarse  whisper,  and  failing. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  deceive  me  about  it?"  he 
asked.  "Not  any  more  than  I  could  deceive  you!  Do 
you  think  I'm  glad — haven't  you  seen  how  I've  been 
fighting  it — ignoring  it " 

Susan's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  with  frightened  fas- 
cination ;  she  could  not  have  spoken  if  life  had  depended 
upon  it. 

"No,"  he  said,  "whatever  comes  of  it,  or  however 
we  suffer  for  it,  I  love  you,  and  you  love  me,  don't  you, 
Susan?" 

She  had  forgotten  herself  now,  forgotten  that  thij 
was  only  a  sort  of  play — forgotten  her  part  as  a  leading 
lady,  bare-armed  and  bright-haired,  whose  role  it  was 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  311 

to  charm  this  handsome  man,  in  the  soft  lamplight. 
She  suddenly  knew  that  she  could  not  deny  what  he 
asked,  and  with  the  knowledge  that  she  did  care  for 
him,  that  this  splendid  thing  had  come  into  her  life  for 
her  to  reject  or  to  keep,  every  rational  thought  deserted 
her.  It  only  seemed  important  that  he  should  know 
that  she  was  not  going  to  answer  "No." 

"Do  you  care  a  little,  Susan?"  he  asked  again. 
Susan  did  not  answer  or  move.  Her  eyes  never  left 
his  face. 

She  was  still  staring  at  him,  a  moment  later,  ashen- 
faced  and  helpless,  when  they  heard  Bostwick  crossing 
the  hall  to  admit  Ella  and  her  chattering  friends.  Some- 
how she  stood  up,  somehow  walked  to  the  door. 

"After  nine!"  said  Ella,  briskly  introducing,  "but  I 
know  you  didn't  miss  us !  Get  a  card-table,  Bostwick, 
please.  And,  Sue,  will  you  wait,  like  a  love,  and  see 
that  we  get  something  to  eat  at  twelve — at  one?  Take 
these  things,  Lizzie.  Now.  What  is  it,  Stephen?  A 
four-spot?  You  get  it.  How's  the  kid,  Sue?" 

"I'm  going  right  up  to  see !"  Susan  said  dizzily,  glad 
to  escape.  She  went  up  to  Emily's  room,  and  was  made 
welcome  by  the  bored  invalid,  and  gladly  restored  to 
her  place  as  chief  attendant.  When  Emily  was  sleepy 
Susan  went  downstairs  to  superintend  the  arrangements 
for  supper;  presently  she  presided  over  the  chafing- 
dish.  She  did  not  speak  to  Bocqueraz  or  meet  his  look 
once  during  the  evening.  But  in  every  fiber  of  her 
being  she  was  conscious  of  his  nearness,  and  of  his  eyes. 

The  long  night  brought  misgivings,  and  Susan  went 
down  to  breakfast  cold  with  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing. Ella  kept  her  guest  busy  all  day,  and  all  through 
the  following  day.  Susan,  half-sick  at  first  with  the 
variety  and  violence  of  her  emotions,  had  convinced 
herself,  before  forty-eight  hours  were  over,  that  the 
whole  affair  had  been  no  more  than  a  moment  of  mad- 
ness, as  much  regretted  by  him  as  by  herself. 


312  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

It  was  humiliating  to  remember  with  what  a  lack  of 
self-control  and  reserve  she  had  borne  herself,  she  re- 
flected. "But  one  more  word  of  this  sort,"  Susan 
resolved,  "and  I  will  simply  go  back  to  Auntie  within 
the  hour!" 

On  the  third  afternoon,  a  Sunday,  Peter  Coleman 
came  to  suggest  an  idle  stroll  with  Emily  and  Susan, 
and  was  promptly  seized  by  the  gratified  Emily  for  a 
motor-trip. 

"We'll  stop  for  Isabel  and  John,"  said  Emily,  elated. 
"Unless,"  her  voice  became  a  trifle  flat,  "unless  you'd 
like  to  go,  Sue,"  she  amended,  "and  in  that  case,  if 
Isabel  can  go,  we  can " 

"Oh,  heavens,  no!"  Susan  said,  laughing,  pleased 
at  the  disgusted  face  Peter  Coleman  showed  beyond 
Emily's  head.  "Ella  wants  me  to  go  over  to  the  hotel, 
anyway,  to  talk  about  borrowing  chairs  for  the  concert, 
and  I'll  go  this  afternoon,"  she  added,  lowering  her 
voice  so  that  it  should  not  penetrate  the  library,  where 
Ella  and  Bocqueraz  and  some  luncheon  guests  were 
talking  together. 

But  when  she  walked  down  the  drive  half  an  hour 
later,  with  the  collies  leaping  about  her,  the  writer 
quietly  fell  into  step  at  her  side.  Susan  stopped  short, 
the  color  rushing  into  her  face.  But  her  companion 
paid  no  heed  to  her  confusion. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Susan,"  said  he  unsmilingly, 
and  with  a  tired  sigh.  "Where  shall  we  walk?  Up 
behind  the  convent  here?" 

"You  look  headachy,"  Susan  said  sympathetically, 
distracted  from  larger  issues  by  the  sight  of  his  drawn, 
rather  colorless  face. 

"Bad  night,"  he  explained  briefly.  And  with  no 
further  objection  she  took  the  convent  road,  and  they 
walked  through  the  pale  flood  of  winter  sunshine  to- 
gether. There  had  been  heavy  rains;  to-day  the  air 
was  fresh-washed  and  clear,  but  they  could  hear  the 
steady  droning  of  the  fog-horn  on  the  distant  bay. 

The  convent,  washed  with  clear  sunlight,  loomed 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

high  above  its  bare,  well-kept  gardens.  The  usual 
Sunday  visitors  were  mounting  and  descending  the 
great  flight  of  steps  to  the  doorway;  a  white-robed 
portress  stood  talking  to  one  little  group  at  the  top,  her 
folded  arms  lost  in  her  wide  sleeves.  A  three-year- 
old,  in  a  caped  white  coat,  made  every  one  laugh  by  her 
independent  investigations  of  arches  and  doorway. 

"Dear  Lord,  to  be  that  size  again!"  thought  Susan, 
heavy-hearted. 

"I've  been  thinking  a  good  deal  since  Tuesday 
night,  Susan,"  began  Bocqueraz  quietly,  when  they  had 
reached  the  shelved  road  that  runs  past  the  carriage 
gates  and  lodges  of  beautiful  private  estates,  and  circles 
across  the  hills,  above  the  town.  "And,  of  course,  I've 
been  blaming  myself  bitterly;  but  I'm  not  going  to  speak 
of  that  now.  Until  Tuesday  I  hoped  that  what  pain 
there  was  to  bear,  because  of  my  caring  for  you,  would 
be  borne  by  me  alone.  If  I  blame  myself,  Sue,  it's  only 
because  I  felt  that  I  would  rather  bear  it,  any  amount 
of  it,  than  go  away  from  you  a  moment  before  I  must. 
But  when  I  realize  that  you,  too " 

He  paused,  and  Susan  did  not  speak,  could  not  speak, 
even  though  she  knew  that  her  silence  was  a  definite 
statement. 

"No "  he  said  presently,  "we  must  face  the  thing 

honestly.  And  perhaps  it's  better  so.  I  want  to  speak 
to  you  about  my  marriage.  I  was  twenty-five,  and  Lil- 
lian eighteen.  I  had  come  to  the  city,  a  seventeen-year- 
old  boy,  to  make  my  fortune,  and  it  was  after  the  first 
small  success  that  we  met.  She  was  an  heiress — a 
sweet,  pretty,  spoiled  little  girl;  she  is  just  a  little  girl 
now  in  many  ways.  It  was  a  very  extraordinary  mar- 
riage for  her  to  wish  to  make ;  her  mother  disapproved ; 
her  guardians  disapproved.  I  promised  the  mother  to 
go  away,  and  I  did,  but  Lillian  had  an  illness  a  month 
or  two  later  and  they  sent  for  me,  and  we  were  mar- 
ried. Her  mother  has  always  regarded  me  as  of  sec- 
ondary importance  in  her  daughter's  life;  she  took 
charge  of  our  house,  and  of  the  baby  when  Julie  came, 


314  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

and  went  right  on  with  her  spoiling  and  watching  and 
exulting  in  Lillian.  They  took  trips  abroad;  they  de- 
cided whether  or  not  to  open  the  town  house ;  they  paid 
all  the  bills.  Lillian  has  her  suite  of  rooms,  and  I 
mine.  Julie  is  very  prettily  fond  of  me;  they  like  to 
give  a  big  tea,  two  or  three  times  a  winter,  and  have 
me  in  evidence,  or  Lillian  likes  to  have  me  plan  the- 
atricals, or  manage  amateur  grand-opera  for  her. 
When  Julie  was  about  ten  I  had  my  own  ideas  as  to 
her  upbringing,  but  there  was  a  painful  scene,  in  which 
the  child  herself  was  consulted,  and  stood  with  her 
mother  and  grandmother 

"So,  for  several  years,  Susan,  it  has  been  only  the 
decent  outer  shell  of  a  marriage.  We  sometimes  live 
in  different  cities  for  months  at  a  time,  or  live  in  the 
same  house,  and  see  no  more  of  each  other  than  guests 
in  the  same  hotel.  Lillian  makes  no  secret  of  it;  she 
would  be  glad  to  be  free.  We  have  never  had  a  day, 
never  an  hour,  of  real  companionship !  My  dear 

Sue "  his  voice,  which  had  been  cold  and  bitter, 

softened  suddenly,  and  he  turned  to  her  the  sudden 
winning  smile  that  she  remembered  noticing  the  first 
evening  they  had  known  each  other.  "My  dear  Sue,'v 
he  said,  "when  I  think  what  I  have  missed  in  life  I 
could  go  mad !  When  I  think  what  it  would  be  to  have 
beside  me  a  comrade  who  liked  what  I  like,  who  would 
throw  a  few  things  into  a  suit  case,  and  put  her  hand 
in  mine,  and  wander  over  the  world  with  me,  laughing 
and  singing  through  Italy,  watching  a  sudden  storm 
from  the  doorway  of  an  English  inn " 

"Ah,  don't!"  Susan  said  wistfully. 

"You  have  never  seen  the  Canadian  forests,  Sue,  or 
some  of  the  tropical  beaches,  or  the  color  in  a  Japanese 
street,  or  the  moon  rising  over  the  Irish  lakes  I"  he 
went  on,  "and  how  you  would  love  it  all!" 

"We    oughtn't — oughtn't    to    talk    this    way 

Susan  said  unsteadily. 

They  were  crossing  a  field,  above  the  town,  and 
came  now  to  a  little  stile.  Susan  sat  down  on  the  little 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  315 

weather-burned  step,  and  stared  down  on  the  town 
below.  Bocqueraz  leaned  on  the  rail,  and  looked  at 
her. 

"Always — always — always,"  he  pursued  seriously. 
"I  have  known  that  you  were  somewhere  in  the  world. 
Just  you,  a  bold  and  gay  and  witty  and  beautiful 
woman,  who  would  tear  my  heart  out  by  the  roots 
when  I  met  you,  and  shake  me  out  of  my  comfortable 
indifference  to  the  world  and  everything  in  it.  And 
you  have  come!  But,  Susan,  I  never  knew,  I  never 
dreamed  what  it  would  mean  to  me  to  go  away  from 
you,  to  leave  you  in  peace,  never  guessing " 

"No,  it's  too  late  for  that!"  said  Susan,  clearing  her 
throat.  "I'd  rather  know." 

If  she  had  been  acting  it  would  have  been  the  correct 
thing  to  say.  The  terrifying  thought  was  that  she  was 
not  acting;  she  was  in  deadly,  desperate  earnest  now, 
and  yet  she  could  not  seem  to  stop  short;  every  instant 
involved  her  the  deeper. 

"We — we  must  stop  this,"  she  said,  jumping  up,  and 
walking  briskly  toward  the  village.  "I  am  so  sorry — 
I  am  so  ashamed!  It  all  seemed — seemed  so  foolish 
up  to — well,  to  Tuesday.  We  must  have  been  mad 
that  night !  I  never  dreamed  that  things  would  go  so 
far.  I  don't  blame  you,  I  blame  myself.  I  assure  you 
I  haven't  slept  since,  I  can't  seem  to  eat  or  think  or  do 
anything  naturally  any  more !  Sometimes  I  think  I'm 
going  crazy!" 

"My  poor  little  girl!"  They  were  in  a  sheltered  bit 
of  road  now,  and  Bocqueraz  put  his  two  hands  lightly 
on  her  shoulders,  and  stopped  her  short.  Susan  rested 
her  two  hands  upon  his  arms,  her  eyes,  raised  to  his, 
suddenly  brimmed  with  tears.  "My  poor  little  girl!" 
he  said  again  tenderly,  "we'll  find  a  way  out !  It's  come 
on  you  too  suddenly,  Sue — it  came  upon  me  like  a 
thunderbolt.  But  there's  just  one  thing,"  and  Susan 
remembered  long  afterward  the  look  in  his  eyes  as  he 
spoke  of  it,  "just  one  thing  you  mustn't  forget,  Susan. 
You  belong  to  me  now,  and  I'll  move  heaven  and  earth 


316  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

— but  I'll  have  you.  It's  come  all  wrong,  sweetheart, 
and  we  can't  see  our  way  now.  But,  my  dearest,  the 
wonderful  thing  is  that  it  has  come 

"Think  of  the  lives,"  he  went  on,  as  Susan  did  not 
answer,  "think  of  the  women,  toiling  away  in  dull, 
dreary  lives,  to  whom  a  vision  like  this  has  never 
come!" 

"Oh,  I  know!"  said  Susan,  in  sudden  passionate 
assent. 

"But  don't  misunderstand  me,  dear,  you're  not  to  be 
hurried  or  troubled  in  this  thing.  We'll  think,  and  talk 
things  over,  and  plan.  My  world  is  a  broader  and 
saner  world  than  yours  is,  Susan,  and  when  I  take  you 
there  you  will  be  as  honored  and  as  readily  accepted 
as  any  woman  among  them  all.  My  wife  will  set  me 

free "  he  fell  into  a  muse,  as  they  walked  along 

the  quiet  country  road,  and  Susan,  her  brain  a  mad 
whirl  of  thoughts,  did  not  interrupt  him.  "I  believe 
she  will  set  me  free,"  he  said,  "as  soon  as  she  knows 
that  my  happiness,  and  all  my  life,  depend  upon  it.  It 
can  be  done;  it  can  be  arranged,  surely.  You  know 
that  our  eastern  divorce  laws  are  different  from  yours 
here,  Susan " 

"I  think  I  must  be  mad  to  let  you  talk  so!"  burst 

out  Susan,  "You  must  not!  Divorce !  Why,  my 

aunt !" 

"We'll  not  mention  it  again,"  he  assured  her  quickly, 
but  although  for  the  rest  of  their  walk  they  said  very 
little,  the  girl  escaped  upstairs  to  her  room  before 
dinner  with  a  baffled  sense  that  the  dreadful  word,  if 
unpronounced,  had  been  none  the  less  thundering  in 
her  brain  and  his  all  the  way. 

She  made  herself  comfortable  in  wrapper  and  slip- 
pers, rather  to  the  satisfaction  of  Emily,  who  had 
brought  Peter  back  to  dinner,  barely  touched  the  tray 
that  the  sympathetic  Lizzie  brought  upstairs,  and  lay 
trying  to  read  a  book  that  she  flung  aside  again  and 
again  for  the  thoughts  that  would  have  their  way. 

She  must  think  this  whole  thing  out,  she  told  herself 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  SIT 

desperately;  view  it  dispassionately  and  calmly;  decide 
upon  the  best  and  quickest  step  toward  reinstating  the 
old  order,  toward  blotting  out  this  last  fortnight  of 
weakness  and  madness.  But,  if  Susan  was  fighting  for 
the  laws  of  men,  a  force  far  stronger  was  taking  arms 
against  her,  the  great  law  of  nature  held  her  in  its  grip. 
The  voice  of  Stephen  Bocqueraz  rang  across  her  sanest 
resolution;  the  touch  of  Stephen  Bocqueraz's  hand 
burned  her  like  a  fire. 

Well,  it  had  been  sent  to  her,  she  thought  resentfully, 
lying  back  spent  and  exhausted;  she  had  not  invited  it. 
Suppose  she  accepted  it;  suppose  she  sanctioned  his 
efforts  to  obtain  a  divorce,  suppose  she  were  married 

to  him And  at  the  thought  her  resolutions  melted 

away  in  the  sudden  delicious  and  enervating  wave  of 
emotion  that  swept  over  her.  To  belong  to  him ! 

"Oh,  my  God,  I  do  not  know  what  to  do!"  Susan 
whispered.  She  slipped  to  her  knees,  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands.  If  her  mind  would  but  be  still  for 
a  moment,  would  stop  its  mad  hurry,  she  might  pray. 

A  knock  at  the  door  brought  her  to  her  feet;  it  was 
Miss  Baker,  who  was  sitting  with  Kenneth  to-night, 
and  who  wanted  company.  Susan  was  glad  to  go 
noiselessly  up  to  the  little  sitting-room  next  to  Ken- 
neth's room,  and  sit  chatting  under  the  lamp.  Now  and 
then  low  groaning  and  muttering  came  from  the  sick 
man,  and  the  women  paused  for  a  pitiful  second. 
Susan  presently  went  in  to  help  Miss  Baker  persuade 
him  to  drink  some  cooling  preparation. 

The  big  room  was  luxurious  enough  for  a  Sultan, 
yet  with  hints  of  Kenneth's  earlier  athletic  interests  in 
evidence  too.  A  wonderful  lamp  at  the  bedside  diffused 
a  soft  light.  The  sufferer,  in  embroidered  and  mono- 
grammed  silk  night-wear,  was  under  a  trimly  drawn 
sheet,  with  a  fluffy  satin  quilt  folded  across  his  feet. 
He  muttered  and  shook  his  head,  as  the  drink  was 
presented,  and,  his  bloodshot  eyes  discovering  Susan,  he 
whispered  her  name,  immediately  shouting  it  aloud,  hot 
eyes  on  her  face : 


318  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Susan!" 

"Feeling  better?"  Susan  smiled  encouragingly,  ma- 
ternally, down  upon  him. 

But  his  gaze  had  wandered  again.  He  drained  the 
glass,  and  immediately  seemed  quieter. 

"He'll  sleep  now,"  said  Miss  Baker,  when  they  were 
back  in  the  adjoining  room.  "Doesn't  it  seem  a 
shame?" 

"Couldn't  he  be  cured,  Miss  Baker?" 

"Well,"  the  nurse  pursed  her  lips,  shook  her  head 
thoughtfully.  "No,  I  don't  believe  he  could  now. 
Doctor  thinks  the  south  of  France  will  do  wonders, 
and  he  says  that  if  Mr.  Saunders  stayed  on  a  strict 
diet  for,  say  a  year,  and  then  took  some  German  cure — 
but  I  don't  know !  Nobody  could  make  him  do  it  any- 
way. Why,  we  can't  keep  him  on  a  diet  for  twenty- 
four  hours !  Of  course  he  can't  keep  this  up.  A  few 
more  attacks  like  this  will  finish  him.  He's  going  to 
have  a  nurse  in  the  morning,  and  Doctor  says  that  in 
about  a  month  he  ought  to  get  away.  It's  my  opinion 
he'll  end  in  a  mad-house,"  Miss  Baker  ended,  with 
quiet  satisfaction. 

"Oh,  don't!"  Susan  cried  in  horror. 

"Well,  a  lot  of  them  do,  my  dear!  He'll  never 
get  entirely  well,  that's  positive.  And  now  the  prob- 
lem is,"  the  nurse,  who  was  knitting  a  delicate  rainbow 
afghan  for  a  baby,  smiled  placidly  over  her  faint  pinks 
and  blues,  "now  the  question  is,  who's  going  abroad 
with  him?  He  can't  go  alone.  Ella  declines  the 
honor,"  Miss  Baker's  lips  curled;  she  detested  Ella. 
"Emily — you  know  what  Emily  is !  And  the  poor 
mother,  who  would  really  make  the  effort,  he  says  gets 
on  his  nerves.  Anyway,  she's  not  fit.  If  he  had  a 

man  friend !    But  the  only  one  he'd  go  with,  Mr. 

Russell,  is  married." 

"A  nurse?"  suggested  Susan. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  Miss  Baker  gave  her  a  significant 
look.  "There  are  two  classes  of  nurses,"  she  said, 
"one  sort  wouldn't  dare  take  a  man  who  has  the  de- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  319 

lirium    tremens    anywhere,    much    less    to    a    strange 

country,  and  the  other !     They  tried  that  once, 

before  my  day  it  was,  but  I  guess  that  was  enough 
for  them.  Of  course  the. best  thing  that  he  could  do," 
pursued  the  nurse  lightly,  "is  get  married." 

"Well,"  Susan  felt  the  topic  a  rather  delicate  one. 
"Ought  he  marry?"  she  ventured. 

"Don't  think  I'd  marry  him!"  Miss  Baker  assured 
her  hastily,  "but  he's  no  worse  than  the  Gregory 
boy,  married  last  week.  He's  really  no  worse  than 
lots  of  others!" 

"Well,  it's  a  lovely,  lovely  world!"  brooded  Susan 
bitterly.  "I  wish  to  God''  she  added  passionately, 
"that  there  was  some  way  of  telling  right  from  wrong! 
If  you  want  to  have  a  good  time  and  have  money 
enough,  you  can  steal  and  lie  and  marry  people  like 
Kenneth  Saunders ;  there's  no  law  that  you  can't  break 
— pride,  covetousness,  lust,  anger,  gluttony,  envy  and 
sloth!  That  is  society!  And  yet,  if  you  want  to 
be  decent,  you  can  slave  away  a  thousand  years, 
jnending  and  patching  and  teaching  and  keeping 
books,  and  nothing  beautiful  or  easy  ever  comes  your 
way!" 

I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all,"  said  Miss  Baker, 
in  disapproval.  "I  hope  I'm  not  bad,"  she  went  on 
brightly,  "but.  I  have  a  lovely  time!  Everyone  here 
is  lovely  to  me,  and  once  a  month  I  go  home  to  my 
sister.  We're  the  greatest  chums  ever,  and  her  baby, 
Marguerite,  is  named  for  me,  and  she's  a  perfect 
darling!  And  Beek — that's  her  husband — is  the  most 
comical  thing  I  ever  saw;  he'll  go  up  and  get  Mrs. 
Tully — my  sister  rents  one  of  her  rooms, — and  we 
have  a  little  supper,  and  more  cutting-wp/  Or  else 
Beek'll  sit  with  the  baby,  and  we  girls  go  to  the  the- 
ater!" 

"Yes,  that's  lovely,"  Susan  said,  but  Miss  Baker 
accepted  the  words  and  not  the  tone,  and  went  on  to 
innocent  narratives  of  Lily,  Beek  and  the  little  Mar- 
guerite. 


320  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"And  now,  I  wonder  what  a  really  good,  conscien- 
tious woman  would  do,"  thought  Susan  in  the  still 
watches  of  the  night.  Go  home  to  Auntie,  of  course. 
He  might  follow  her  there,  but,  even  if  he  did,  she 
would  have  made  the  first  right  step,  and  could  then 
plan  the  second.  Susan  imagined  Bocqueraz  in  Auntie's 
sitting-room  and  winced  in  the  dark.  Perhaps  the 
most  definite  stand  she  took  in  all  these  bewildering 
days  was  when  she  decided,  with  a  little  impatient 
resentment,  that  she  was  quite  equal  to  meeting  the 
situation  with  dignity  here. 

But  there  must  be  no  hesitation,  no  compromise. 
Susan  fell  asleep  resolving  upon  heroic  extremes. 

Just  before  dinner,  on  the  evening  following,  she 
was  at  the  grand  piano  in  the  big  drawing-room,  her 
fingers  lazily  following  the  score  of  "Babes  in  Toy- 
land,"  which  Ella  had  left  open  upon  the  rack.  Susan 
felt  tired  and  subdued,  wearily  determined  to  do  her 
duty,  wearily  sure  that  life,  for  the  years  to  come, 
would  be  as  gray  and  sad  as  to-day  seemed.  She  had 
been  crying  earlier  in  the  day  and  felt  the  better  for 
the  storm.  Susan  had  determined  upon  one  more  talk 
with  Bocqueraz, — the  last. 

And  presently  he  was  leaning  on  the  piano,  facing 
her  in  the  dim  light.  Susan's  hands  began  to  tremble, 
to  grow  cold.  Her  heart  beat  high  with  nervousness; 
some  primitive  terror  assailed  her  even  here,  in  the 
familiar  room,  within  the  hearing  of  a  dozen  maids. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  as  she  did  not 
smile. 

Susan  still  watched  him  seriously.  She  did  not 
answer. 

"My  fault?"  he  asked. 

"No-o."  Susan's  lip  trembled.  "Or  perhaps  it  is, 
in  a  way,"  she  said  slowly  and  softly,  still  striking 
almost  inaudible  chords.  "I  can't — I  can't  seem  to 
see  things  straight,  whichever  way  I  look!"  she  con- 
fessed as  simply  as  a  troubled  child. 

"Will  you  come  across  the  hall  into  the  little  library 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  321 

with  me  and  talk  about  it  for  two  minutes?"  he  asked. 

"No."    Susan  shook  her  head.  . 

"Susan!     Why  not?" 

"Because  we  must  stop  it  all,"  the  girl  said  steadily, 
"all,  every  bit  of  it,  before  we — before  we  are  sorry ! 
You  are  a  married  man,  and  I  knew  it,  and  it  is  all 
wrong " 

"No,  it's  not  all  wrong,  I  won't  admit  that,"  he  said 
quickly.  "There  has  been  no  wrong." 

It  was  a  great  weight  lifted  from  Susan's  heart  to 
think  that  this  was  true.  Ended  here,  the  friendship 
was  merely  an  episode. 

"If  we  stop  here,"  she  said  almost  pleadingly. 

"If  we  stop  here,"  he  agreed,  slowly.  "If  we  end 
it  all  here.  Well.  And  of  course,  Sue,  chance  might, 
might  set  me  free,  you  know,  and  then— " 

Again  the  serious  look,  followed  by  the  sweet  and 
irresistible  smile.  Susan  suddenly  felt  the  hot  tears 
running  down  her  cheeks. 

"Chance  won't,"  she  said  in  agony.  And  she  began 
to  fumble  blindly  for  a  handkerchief. 

In  an  instant  he  was  beside  her,  and  as  she  stood  up 
he  put  both  arms  about  her,  and  she  dropped  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  and  wept  silently  and  bitterly.  Every 
instant  of  this  nearness  stabbed  her  with  new  joy  and 
new  pain;  when  at  last  he  gently  tipped  back  her  tear- 
drenched  face,  she  was  incapable  of  resisting  the  great 
flood  of  emotion  that  was  sweeping  them  both  off  their 
feet. 

"Sue,  you  do  care!     My  dearest,  you  do  care?" 

Susan,  panting,  clung  to  him. 

"Oh,  yes — yes!"  she  whispered.  And,  at  a  sound 
from  the  hall,  she  crushed  his  handkerchief  back  into 
his  hand,  and  walked  to  the  deep  archway  of  a  distant 
window.  When  he  joined  her  there,  she  was  still 
breathing  hard,  and  had  her  hand  pressed  against  her 
heart,  but  she  was  no  longer  crying. 

"I  am  mad  I  think!"  smiled  Susan,  quite  mistress 
of  herself. 


822  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Susan,"  he  said  eagerly,  "I  was  only  waiting  for 
this !  If  you  knew — if  you  only  knew  what  an  agony 

I've  been  in  yesterday  and  to-day !  And  I'm  not 

going  to  distress  you  now  with  plans,  my  dearest.  But, 
Sue,  if  I  were  a  divorced  man  now,  would  you  let  it  be 
a  barrier?" 

"No,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  thought.  "No,  I 
wouldn't  let  anything  that  wasn't  a  legal  barrier  stand 
in  the  way.  Even  though  divorce  has  always  seemed 
terrible  to  me.  But — but  you're  not  free,  Mr.  Boc- 
queraz." 

He  was  standing  close  behind  her,  as  she  stood 
staring  out  into  the  night,  and  now  put  his  arm  about 
her,  and  Susan,  looking  up  over  her  shoulder,  raised 
childlike  blue  eyes  to  his. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  call  me  that?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know — Stephen,"  she  said.  And  suddenly 
she  wrenched  herself  free,  and  turned  to  face  him. 

"I  can't  seem  to  keep  my  senses  when  I'm  within  ten 
feet  of  you!"  Susan  declared,  half-laughing  and  half- 
crying. 

"But  Sue,  if  my  wife  agrees  to  a  divorce,"  he  said, 
catching  both  her  hands. 

"Don't  touch  me,  please,"  she  said,  loosening  them. 

"I  will  not,  of  course!"  He  took  firm  hold  of  a 

chair-back.  "If  Lillian "  he  began  again,  very 

gravely. 

Susan  leaned  toward  him,  her  face  not  twelve  inches 
away  from  his  face,  her  hand  laid  lightly  for  a  second 
on  his  arm. 

"You  know  that  I  will  go  with  you  to  the  end  of 
the  world,  Stephen !"  she  said,  scarcely  above  a  whisper, 
and  was  gone. 

It  became  evident,  in  a  day  or  two,  that  Kenneth 
Saunders'  illness  had  taken  a  rather  alarming  turn. 
There  was  a  consultation  of  doctors ;  there  was  a  second 
nurse.  Ella  went  to  the  extreme  point  of  giving  up  an 
engagement  to  remain  with  her  mother  while  the  worst 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

was  feared;  Emily  and  Susan  worried  and  waited,  in 
their  rooms.  Stephen  Bocqueraz  was  a  great  deal  in 
the  sick-room;  "a  real  big  brother,"  as  Mrs.  Saunders 
said  tearfully. 

The  crisis  passed;  Kenneth  was  better,  was  almost 
normal  again.  But  the  great  specialist  who  had  entered 
the  house  only  for  an  hour  or  two  had  left  behind  him 
the  little  seed  that  was  to  vitally  affect  the-  lives  of 
several  of  these  people. 

"Dr.  Hudson  says  he's  got  to  get  away,"  said  Ella 
to  Susan,  "I  wish  I  could  go  with  him.  Kenneth's  a 
lovely  traveler." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  Emily  supplemented,  "but  I'm  no 
good." 

"And  doctor  says  that  he'll  come  home  quite  a  dif~ 
ferent  person,"  added  his  mother.  Susan  wondered  if 
she  fancied  that  they  all  looked  in  a  rather  marked 
manner  at  her.  She  wondered,  if  it  was  not  fancy, 
what  the  look  meant. 

They  were  all  in  the  upstairs  sitting-room  in  the 
bright  morning  light  when  this  was  said.  They  had 
drifted  in  there  one  by  one,  apparently  by  accident. 
Susan,  made  a  little  curious  and  uneasy  by  a  subtle 
sense  of  something  unsaid — something  pending,  began 
to  wonder,  too,  if  it  had  really  been  accident  that  as- 
sembled them  there. 

But  she  was  still  without  definite  suspicions  when 
Ella,  upon  the  entrance  of  Chow  Yew  with  Mr.  Ken- 
neth's letters  and  the  new  magazines,  jumped  up  gaily, 
and  said: 

"Here,  Sue !  Will  you  run  up  with  these  to  Ken — 
and  take  these  violets,  too?" 

She  put  the  magazines  in  Susan's  hands,  and  added 
a  great  bunch  of  dewy  wet  violets  that  had  been  lying 
on  the  table.  Susan,  really  glad  to  escape  from  the 
over-charged  atmosphere  of  the  room,  willingly  went 
on  her  way. 

Kenneth  was  sitting  up  to-day,  very  white,  very 
haggard, — clean-shaven  and  hollow-eyed,  and  some- 


324  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

how  very  pitiful.  He  smiled  at  Susan,  as  she  came 
in,  and  laid  a  thin  hand  on  a  chair  by  the  bed.  Susan 
sat  down,  and  as  she  did  so  the  watching  nurse  went 
out. 

"Well,  had  you  ordered  a  pillow  of  violets  with 
shaky  doves?"  he  asked,  in  a  hoarse  thin  echo  of  his 
old  voice. 

"No,  but  I  guess  you  were  pretty  sick,"  the  girl  said 
soberly.  "How  goes  it  to-day?" 

"Oh,  fine!"  he  answered  hardily,  "as  soon  as  I  am 
over  the  ether  I'll  feel  like  a  fighting  cock!  Hudson 
talked  a  good  deal  with  his  mouth,"  said  Kenneth 
coughing.  "But  the  rotten  thing  about  me,  Susan," 
he  went  on,  "is  that  I  can't  booze, — I  really  can't  do 
it !  Consequently,  when  some  old  fellow  like  that  gets 
a  chance  at  me,  he  thinks  he  ought  to  scare  me  to 
death!"  He  sank  back,  tired  from  coughing.  "But 
I'm  all  right!"  he  finished,  comfortably,  "I'll  be  alright 
again  after  a  while." 

"Well,  but  now,  honestly,  from  now  on "  Susan 

began,  timidly  but  eagerly,  "won't  you  truly  try " 

"Oh,  sure !"  he  said  simply.  "I  promised.  I'm  go- 
ing to  cut  it  out,  all  of  it.  I'm  done.  I  don't  mean  to 
say  that  I've  ever  been  a  patch  on  some  of  the  others," 
said  Kenneth.  "Lord,  you  ought  to  see  some  of  the 
men  who  really  drink!  At  the  same  time,  I've  had 
enough.  It's  me  to  the  simple  joys  of  country  life — 
I'm  going  to  try  farming.  But  first  they  want  me  to 
try  France  for  awhile,  and  then  take  this  German 
treatment,  whatever  it  is.  Hudson  wants  me  to  get  off 
by  the  first  of  the  year." 

"Oh,  really!  France!"  Susan's  eyes  sparkled. 
"Oh,  aren't  you  wild!" 

"I'm  not  so  crazy  about  it.  Not  Paris,  you  know, 
but  some  dinky  resort." 

"Oh,  but  fancy  the  ocean  trip — and  meeting  the 
village  people — and  New  York!"  Susan  exclaimed. 
"I  think  every  instant  of  traveling  would  be  a  joy!" 
And  the  vision  of  herself  in  all  these  places,  with 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  325 

Stephen  Bocqueraz  as  interpreter,  wrung  her  heart  with 
longing. 

Kenneth  was  watching  her  closely.  A  dull  red  color 
had  crept  into  his  face. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  come?"  he  laughed  awk- 
wardly. 

Something  in  his  tone  made  Susan  color  uncomfort- 
ably too. 

"That  did  sound  as  if  I  were  asking  myself  along!" 
she  smiled. 

"Oh,  no,  it  didn't!"  he  reassured  her.  "But — but  I 
mean  it.  Why  don't  you  come?" 

They  were  looking  steadily  at  each  other  now.  Susan 
tried  to  laugh. 

"A  scandal  in  high  life!"  she  said,  in  an  attempt 
to  make  the  conversation  farcical.  "Elopement  sur- 
prises society!" 

"That's  what  I  mean — that's  what  I  mean!"  he 
said  eagerly,  yet  bashfully  too.  "What's  the  matter 
with  our — our  getting  married,  Susan?  You  and  I'll 
get  married,  d'ye  see?" 

And  as,  astonished  and  frightened  and  curiously 
touched  she  stood  up,  he  caught  at  her  skirt.  Susan 
put  her  hand  over  his  with  a  reassuring  and  soothing 
gesture. 

"You'd  like  that,  wouldn't  you?"  he  said,  beginning 
to  cough  again.  "You  said  you  would.  And  I — I 
am  terribly  fond  of  you — you  could  do  just  as  you  like. 
For  instance,  if  you  wanted  to  take  a  little  trip  off 
anywhere,  with  friends,  you  know,"  said  Kenneth  with 
boyish,  smiling  generosity,  "you  could  always  do  it! 
I  wouldn't  want  to  tie  you  down  to  me!"  He  lay 
back,  after  coughing,  but  his  bony  hand  still  clung  to 
hers.  "You're  the  only  woman  I  ever  asked  to  under- 
take such  a  bad  job,"  he  finished,  in  a  whisper. 

"Why — but  honestly "  Susan  began.  She 

laughed  out  nervously  and  unsteadily.  "This  is  so 
sudden,"  said  she.  Kenneth  laughed  too. 

"But,  you  see,  they're  hustling  me  off,"  he  com- 


326  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

plained.  "This  weather  is  so  rotten!  And  El's  keen 
for  it,"  he  urged,  "and  Mother  too.  If  you'll  be  so 
awfully,  awfully  good — I  know  you  aren't  crazy  about 
me — and  you  know  some  pretty  rotten  things  about 
me " 

The  very  awkwardness  of  his  phrasing  won  her  as 
no  other  quality  could.  Susan  felt  suddenly  tender 
toward  him,  felt  old  and  sad  and  wise. 

"Mr.  Saunders,"  she  said,  gently,  "you've  taken  my 
breath  away.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you.  I 
can't  pretend  that  I'm  in  love  with  you " 

"Of  course  you're  not!"  he  said,  very  much  em- 
barrassed, "but  if  there's  no  one  else,  Sue " 

"There  is  someone  else,"  said  Susan,  her  eyes  sud- 
denly watering.  "But — but  that's  not  going — right, 
and  it  never  can!  If  you'll  give  me  a  few  days  to 
think  about  it,  Kenneth " 

"Sure!     Take  your  time!"  he  agreed  eagerly. 

"It  would  be  the  very  quietest  and  quickest  and  sim- 
plest wedding  that  ever  was,  wouldn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  absolutely!"  Kenneth  seemed  immensely  re- 
lieved. "No  riot!" 

"And  you  will  let  me  think  it  over?"  the  girl  asked, 
"because — I  know  other  girls  say  this,  but  it's  true ! — 
I  never  dreamed " 

"Sure,  you  think  it  over.  I'll  consider  you  haven't 
given  me  the  faintest  idea  of  how  you  feel,"  said  Ken- 
neth. They  clasped  hands  for  good-by.  Susan  fan- 
cied that  his  smile  might  have  been  an  invitation  for 
a  little  more  affectionate  parting,  but  if  it  was  she 
ignored  it.  She  turned  at  the  door  to  smile  back  at 
him  before  she  went  downstairs. 


CHAPTER  V 

SUSAN  went  straight  downstairs,  and,  with  as  little 
self-consciousness  as  if  the  house  had  been  on  fire, 
rapped  at  and  opened  the  door  of  Stephen  Bocqueraz's 
study.  He  half  rose,  with  a  smile  of  surprise  and 
pleasure,  as  she  came  in,  but  his  own  face  instantly 
reflected  the  concern  and  distress  on  hers,  and  he  came 
to  her,  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"What  is  it,  Susan?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

Susan  had  closed  the  door  behind  her.  Now  she 
drew  him  swiftly  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  as  far 
from  the  hall  as  possible.  They  stood  in  the  window 
recess,  Susan  holding  tight  to  the  author's  hand; 
Stephen  eyeing  her  anxiously  and  eagerly. 

"My  very  dear  little  girl,  what  is  it?" 

"Kenneth  wants  me  to  marry  him,"  Susan  said  pant- 
ing. "He's  got  to  go  to  France,  you  know.  They 
want  me  to  go  with  him." 

"What?"  Bocqueraz  asked  slowly.  He  dropped  her 
hands. 

"Oh,  don't!"  Susan  said,  stung  by  his  look.  "Would 
I  have  come  straight  to  you,  if  I  had  agreed?" 

"You  said  'no'?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"I  didn't  say  anything!"  she  answered,  almost  with 
anger.  "I  don't  know  what  to  do — or  what  to  say!" 
she  finished  forlornly. 

"You  don't  know  what  to  do?"  echoed  Stephen,  in 
his  clear,  decisive  tones.  "What  do  you  mean?  Of 
course,  it's  monstrous!  Ella  never  should  have  per- 
mitted it.  There's  only  one  thing  for  you  to  do?" 

"It's  not  so  easy  as  that,"  Susan  said. 

"How  do  you  mean  that  it's  not  easy?  You  can't 
care  for  him?" 

327 


328  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Care  for  him!"  Susan's  scornful  voice  was  broken 
by  tears.  "Of  course  I  don't  care  for  him !"  she  said. 
"But — can't  you  see?  If  I  displease  them,  if  I  refuse 
to  do  this,  that  they've  all  thought  out  evidently,  and 
planned,  I'll  have  to  go  back  to  my  aunt's  I" 

Stephen  Bocqueraz,  his  hands  in  his  coat-pockets, 
stood  silently  watching  her. 

"And  fancy  what  it  would  mean  to  Auntie,"  Susan 
said,  beginning  to  pace  the  floor  in  agony  of  spirit. 
"Comfort  for  the  rest  of  her  life!  And  everything 
for  the  girls !  I  would  do  anything  else  in  the  world," 
she  said  distressfully,  "for  one  tenth  the  money,  for  one 
twentieth  of  it!  And  I  believe  he  would  be  kind  to 
me,  and  he  says  he  is  positively  going  to  stop — and 

it  isn't  as  if  you  and  I — you  and — -I "  she  stopped 

short,  childishly. 

"Of  course  you  would  be  extremely  rich,"  Stephen 
said  quietly. 

"Oh,  rich — rich — rich!"  Susan  pressed  her  locked 
hands  to  her  heart  with  a  desperate  gesture.  "Some- 
times I  think  we  are  all  crazy,  to  make  money  so  im- 
portant!" she  went  on  passionately.  "What  good  did 
it  ever  bring  anyone !  Why  aren't  we  taught  when 
we're  little  that  it  doesn't  count,  that  it's  only  a  side- 
issue  !  I've  seen  more  horrors  in  the  past  year-and-a- 
half  than  I  ever  did  in  my  life  before; — disease  and 
lying  and  cruelty,  all  covered  up  with  a  layer  of  flowers 
and  rich  food  and  handsome  presents !  Nobody  enjoys 
anything;  even  wedding-presents  are  only  a  little  more 
and  a  little  better  than  the  things  a  girl  has  had  all  her 
life;  even  children  don't  count;  one  can't  get  near  them! 
Stephen,"  Susan  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  "I've  seen 
the  horribly  poor  side  of  life, — the  poverty  that  is 
worse  than  want,  because  it's  hopeless, — and  now  I 
see  the  rich  side,  and  I  don't  wonder  any  longer  that 
sometimes  people  take  violent  means  to  get  away  from 
it!" 

She  dropped  into  the  chair  that  faced  his,  at  the 
desk,  and  cupped  her  face  in  her  hands,  staring  gloom- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  329 

ily  before  her.  "If  any  of  my  own  people  knew  that 
I  refused  to  marry  Kenneth  Saunders,"  she  went  on 
presently,  "they  would  simply  think  me  mad;  and  per- 
haps I  am!  But,  although  he  was  his  very  sweetest 
and  nicest  this  morning, — and  I  know  how  different  he 
can  be ! — somehow,  when  I  leaned  over  him,  the  little 

odor  of  ether! "  She  broke  off  short,  with  a  little 

shudder. 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  Susan  looked  at  her 
companion  uncomfortably. 

"Why  don't  you  talk  to  me?"  she  asked,  with  a 
tremulous  smile. 

Bocqueraz  sat  down  at  the  desk  opposite  her,  and 
stared  at  her  across  folded  arms. 

"Nothing  to  say,"  he  said  quietly.  But  instantly 
some  sudden  violent  passion  shook  him;  he  pressed  both 
palms  to  his  temples,  and  Susan  could  see  that  the 
fingers  with  which  he  covered  his  eyes  were  shaking. 
"My  God!  What  more  can  I  do?"  he  said  aloud,  in 
a  low  tone.  "What  more  can  I  do?  You  come  to 
me  with  this,  little  girl,"  he  said,  gripping  her  hands 
in  his.  "You  turp  to  me,  as  your  only  friend  just  now. 
And  I'm  going  to  be  worthy  of  your  trust  in  me!" 

He  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window,  and  Susan 
followed  him  there. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  said  to  her,  and  in  his  voice  was 
the  great  relief  that  follows  an  ended  struggle,  "I'm 
only  a  man,  and  I  love  you  I  You  are  the  dearest  and 
truest  and  wittiest  and  best  woman  I  ever  knew. 
You've  made  all  life  over  for  me,  Susan,  and  you've 
made  me  believe  in  what  I  always  thought  was  only 
the  fancy  of  writers  and  poets ; — that  a  man  and  woman 
are  made  for  each  other  by  God,  and  can  spend  all 
their  lives, — yes,  and  other  lives  elsewhere — in  glorious 
companionship,  wanting  nothing  but  each  other.  I've 
seen  a  good  many  women,  but  I  never  saw  one  like 
you.  Will  you  let  me  take  care  of  you,  dear?  Will  you 
trust  me  ?  You  know  what  I  am,  Sue ;  you  know  what 
my  work  stands  for.  I  couldn't  lie  to  you,  You  say 


330  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

you  know  the  two  extremes  of  life,  dear,  but  I  want 
to  show  you  a  third  sort;  where  money  isn't  paramount, 
where  rich  people  have  souls,  and  where  poor  people 
get  all  the  happiness  that  there  is  in  life!" 

His  arm  was  about  her  now;  her  senses  on  fire;  her 
eyes  brimming. 

"But  do  you  love  me?"  whispered  Susan. 

"Love  you!"  His  face  had  grown  pale.  "To  have 
you  ask  me  that,"  he  said  under  his  breath,  "is  the  most 
heavenly — the  most  wonderful  thing  that  ever  came 
into  my  life !  I'm  not  worthy  of  it.  But  God  knows 
that  I  will  take  care  of  you,  Sue,  and,  long  before  I 
take  you  to  New  York,  to  my  own  people,  these  days 
will  be  only  a  troubled  dream.  You  will  be  my  wife 
then " 

The  wonderful  word  brought  the  happy  color  to  her 
face. 

"I  believe  you,"  she  said  seriously,  giving  him  both 
her  hands,  and  looking  bravely  into  his  eyes.  "You  are 
the  best  man  I  ever  met — I  can't  let  you  go.  I  believe 
it  would  be  wrong  to  let  you  go."  She  hesitated, 
groped  for  words.  "You're  the  only  thing  in  the  world 
that  seems  real  to  me,"  Susan  said.  "I  knew  that  the 
old  days  at  Auntie's  were  all  wrong  and  twisted  some- 
how, and  here "  She  indicated  the  house  with  a 

shudder.  "I  feel  stifled  here!"  she  said.  "But — but 
if  there  is  really  some  place  where  people  are  good  and 
simple,  whether  they're  rich  or  poor,  and  honest,  and 
hard-working — I  want  to  go  there !  We'll  have  books 
and  music,  and  a  garden,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  and 
he  felt  that  the  hands  in  his  were  hot,  "and  we'll  live 
so  far  away  from  all  this  sort  of  thing,  that  we'll  forget 
it  and  they'll  forget  us !  I  would  rather,"  Susan's  eyes 
grew  wistful,  "I  would  rather  have  a  garden  where  my 
babies  could  make  mud-pies  and  play,  then  be  married 
to  Kenneth  Saunders  in  the  Cathedral  with  ten  brides- 
maids!" 

Perhaps  something  in  the  last  sentence  stirred  him 
to  sudden  compunction. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  331 

"You  know  that  it  means  going  away  with  me,  little 
girl?"  he  asked. 

"No,  it  doesn't  mean  that,"  she  answered  honestly. 
"I  could  go  back  to  Auntie,  I  suppose.  I  could  wait!" 

"I've  been  thinking  of  that,"  he  said,  seriously.  "I 
want  you  to  listen  to  me.  I  have  been  half  planning 
a  trip  to  Japan,  Susan,  I  want  to  take  you  with  me. 
We'll  loiter  through  the  Orient — that  makes  your 
eyes  dance,  my  little  Irishwoman;  but  wait  until  you 
are  really  there;  no  books  and  no  pictures  do  it  jus- 
tice! We'll  go  to  India,  and  you  shall  see  the  Taj 
Mahal — all  lovers  ought  to  see  it!" 

"And  the  great  desert "  Susan  said  dreamily. 

"And  the  great  desert.  We'll  come  home  by  Italy 
and  France,  and  we'll  go  to  London.  And  while  we're 
there,  I  will  correspond  with  Lillian,  or  Lillian's  law- 
yer. There  will  be  no  reason  then  why  she  should  hold 


me." 


"You  mean,"  said  Susan,  scarlet-cheeked,  "that — 
that  just  my  going  with  you  will  be  sufficient  cause?" 

"It  is  the  only  ground  on  which  she  would,"  he 
assented,  watching  her,  "that  she  could,  in  fact." 
Susan  stared  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window.  "Then," 
he  took  up  the  narrative,  "then  we  stay  a  few  months 
in  London,  are  quietly  married  there, — or,  better  yet, 
sail  at  once  for  home,  and  are  married  in  some  quiet 
little  Jersey  town,  say,  and  then — then  I  bring  home 
the  loveliest  bride  in  the  world!  No  one  need  know 
that  our  trip  around  the  world  was  not  completely 
chaperoned.  No  one  will  ask  questions.  You  shall 

have  your  circle " 

"But  I  thought  you  were  not  going  to  Japan  until 
the  serial  rights  of  the  novel  were  sold?"  Susan  tem- 
porized. 

For  answer  he  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket,  and 
with  her  own  eyes  she  read  an  editor's  acceptance 
of  the  new  novel  for  what  seemed  to  her  a  fabulous 
sum.  No  argument  could  have  influenced  her  as  the 
single  typewritten  sheet  did.  Why  should  she  not 


332  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

trust  this  man,  whom  all  the  world  admired  and 
trusted  ?  Heart  and  mind  were  reconciled  now ;  Susan's 
eyes,  when  they  were  raised  to  his,  were  full  of  shy 
adoration  and  confidence. 

"That's  my  girl !"  he  said,  very  low.  He  put  his 
arm  about  her  and  she  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
grateful  to  him  that  he  said  no  more  just  now,  and  did 
not  even  claim  the  kiss  of  the  accepted  lover.  Together 
they  stood  looking  down  at  the  leafless  avenue,  for  a 
long  moment. 

"Stephen!"  called  Ella's  voice  at  the  door.  Susan's 
heart  lost  a  beat;  gave  a  sick  leap  of  fear;  raced  madly. 

"Just  a  moment,"  Bocqueraz  said  pleasantly.  He 
stepped  noiselessly  to  the  door  of  the  porch,  noiselessly 
opened  it,  and  Susan  slipped  through. 

"Don't  let  me  interrupt  you,  but  is  Susan  here?" 
called  Ella. 

"Susan?  No,"  Susan  herself  heard  him  say,  before 
she  went  quietly  about  the  corner  of  the  house  and, 
letting  herself  in  at  the  side-door,  lost  the  sound  of 
their  voices. 

She  had  entered  the  rear  hall,  close  to  a  coat-closet; 
and  now,  following  a  sudden  impulse,  she  put  on  a 
rough  little  hat  and  the  long  cloak  she  often  wore  for 
tramps,  ran  down  the  drive,  crossed  behind  the  stables, 
and  was  out  in  the  quiet  highway,  in  the  space  of  two 
or  three  minutes. 

Quick-rising  clouds  were  shutting  out  the  sun;  a 
thick  fog  was  creeping  up  from  the  bay,  the  sunny 
bright  morning  was  to  be  followed  by  a  dark  and 
gloomy  afternoon.  Everything  looked  dark  and 
gloomy  already;  gardens  everywhere  were  bare;  a 
chilly  breeze  shook  the  ivy  leaves  on  the  convent 
wall.  As  Susan  passed  the  big  stone  gateway,  in  its 
close-drawn  network  of  bare  vines,  the  Angelus  rang 
suddenly  from  the  tower; — three  strokes,  a  pause, 
three  more,  a  final  three, — dying  away  in  a  silence 
as  deep  as  that  of  a  void.  Susan  remembered  another 
convent-bell,  heard  years  ago,  a  delicious  assurance  of 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  333 

meal-time.  A  sharp  little  hungry  pang  assailed  her 
even  now  at  the  memory,  and  with  the  memory  came 
just  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  a  little  girl,  eager,  talkative, 
yellow  of  braids,  leading  the  chattering  rush  of  girls 
into  the  yard. 

The  girls  were  pouring  out  of  the  big  convent-doors 
now,  some  of  them  noticed  the  passer-by,  eyed  her 
respectfully.  She  knew  that  they  thought  of  her  as  a 
"young  lady."  She  longed  for  a  wistful  moment  to  be 
one  of  them,  to  be  among  them,  to  have  no  troubles 
but  the  possible  "penance"  after  school,  no  concern 
but  for  the  contents  of  her  lunch-basket! 

She  presently  came  to  the  grave-yard  gate,  and  went 
in,  and  sat  down  on  a  tilted  little  filigree  iron  bench, 
near  one  of  the  graves.  She  could  look  down  on  the 
roofs  of  the  village  below,  and  the  circle  of  hills 
beyond,  and  the  marshes,  cut  by  the  silver  ribbons  of 
streams  that  went  down  to  the  fog-veiled  bay.  Cocks 
crowed,  far  and  near,  and  sometimes  there  came  to 
her  ears  the  shouts  of  invisible  children,  but  she  was 
shut  out  of  the  world  by  the  soft  curtain  of  the  fog. 

Not  even  now  did  her  breath  come  evenly.  Susan  be- 
gan to  think  that  her  heart  would  never  beat  normally 
again.  She  tried  to  collect  her  thoughts,  tried  to 
analyze  her  position,  only  to  find  herself  studying, 
with  amused  attention,  the  interest  of  a  brown  bird  in 
the  tip  of  her  shoe,  or  reflecting  with  distaste  upon 
the  fact  that  somehow  she  must  go  back  to  the  house, 
and  settle  the  matter  of  her  attitude  toward  Kenneth, 
once  and  for  all. 

Over  all  her  musing  poured  the  warm  flood  of  ex- 
citement and  delight  that  the  thought  of  Stephen  Boc- 
queraz  invariably  brought.  Her  most  heroic  effort  at 
self-blame  melted  away  at  the  memory  of  his  words. 
What  nonsense  to  treat  this  affair  as  a  dispassionate 
statement  of  the  facts  might  represent  it!  Whatever 
the  facts,  he  was  Stephen  Bocqueraz,  and  she  Susan, 
Brown,  and  they  understood  each  other,  and  were  not 
afraid  I 


334  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Susan  smiled  as  she  thought  of  the  romances  built 
upon  the  histories  of  girls  who  were  "led  astray,"  girls 
who  were  "ruined,"  men  whose  promises  of  marriage 
did  not  hold.  It  was  all  such  nonsense!  It  did  not 
seem  right  to  her  even  to  think  of  these  words  in  con- 
nection with  this  particular  case;  she  felt  as  if  it  con- 
victed her  somehow  of  coarseness. 

She  abandoned  consecutive  thought,  and  fell  to  happy 
musing.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  dreamed  of  crowded 
Oriental  streets,  of  a  great  desert  asleep  under  the 
moonlight,  of  New  York  shining  clean  and  bright,  the 
spring  sunlight,  and  people  walking  the  streets  under 
the  fresh  green  of  tall  trees.  She  had  seen  it  so,  in 
many  pictures,  and  in  all  her  dreams,  she  liked  the  big 
city  the  best.  She  dreamed  of  a  little  dining-table 
in  a  flying  railway-train 

But  when  Stephen  Bocqueraz  entered  the  picture,  so 
near,  so  kind,  so  big  and  protecting,  Susan  thought  as 
if  her  heart  would  burst,  she  opened  her  eyes,  the  color 
flooding  her  face. 

The  cemetery  was  empty,  dark,  silent.  The  glowing 
visions  faded,  and  Susan  made  one  more  conscientious 
effort  to  think  of  herself,  what  she  was  doing,  what  she 
planned  to  do. 

"Suppose  I  go  to  Auntie's  and  simply  wait '' 

she  began  firmly.  The  thought  went  no  further.  Some 
little  memory,  drifting  across  the  current,  drew  her 
after  it.  A  moment  later,  and  the  dreams  had  come 
back  in  full  force. 

"Well,  anyway,  I  haven't  done  anything  yet  and,  if 
I  don't  want  to,  I  can  always  simply  stop  at  the  last 
moment,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  began  to  walk 
home. 

At  the  great  gateway  of  the  Wallace  home,  two 
riders  overtook  her;  Isabel,  looking  exquisitely  pretty 
in  her  dashing  habit  and  hat,  and  her  big  cavalier  were 
galloping  home  for  a  late  luncheon. 

"Come  in  and  have  lunch  with  us!"  Isabel  called 
gaily,  reining  in.  But  Susan  shook  her  head,  and  re- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  335 

fused  their  urging  resolutely.  Isabel's  wedding  was 
but  a  few  weeks  off  now,  and  Susan  knew  that  she  was 
very  busy.  But,  beside  that,  her  heart  was  so  full  of 
her  own  trouble,  that  the  sight  of  the  other  girl, 
radiant,  adored,  surrounded  by  her  father  and  mother, 
her  brothers,  the  evidences  of  a  most  unusual  popular- 
ity, would  have  stabbed  Susan  to  the  heart.  What  had 
Isabel  done,  Susan  asked  herself  bitterly,  to  have  every 
path  in  life  made  so  lovely  and  so  straight,  while  to 
her,  Susan,  even  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world 
had  come  in  so  clouded  and  distorted  a  form. 

But  he  loved  her !  And  she  loved  him,  and  that  was 
all  that  mattered,  after  all,  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
reentered  the  house  and  went  upstairs. 

Ella  called  her  into  her  bed-room  as  she  passed  the 
door,  by  humming  the  Wedding-march. 

"Tum-taw-ti-tum !  Turn  /wm-ti-tum!"  sang  Ella, 
and  Susan,  uneasy  but  smiling,  went  to  the  doorway 
and  looked  in. 

"Come  in,  Sue,"  said  .Ella,  pausing  in  the  act  of 
inserting  a  large  bare  arm  into  a  sleeve  almost  large 
enough  to  accommodate  Susan's  head.  "Where've  you 
been  all  this  time?  Mama  thought  that  you  were  up- 
stairs with  Ken,  but  the  nurse  says  that  he's  been  asleep 
for  an  hour." 

"Oh,  that's  good!"  said  Susan,  trying  to  speak  nat- 
urally, but  turning  scarlet.  "The  more  he  sleeps  the 
better!" 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Susan,"  said  Ella, 
violently  tugging  at  the  hooks  of  her  skirt, — "Damn 
this  thing! — I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Susan. 
You're  a  very  lucky  girl;  don't  you  fool  yourself  about 
that!  Now  it's  none  of  my  affair,  and  I'm  not  butting 
in,  but,  at  the  same  time,  Ken's  health  makes  this  whole 
matter  a  little  unusual,  and  the  fact  that,  as  a  family 

"  Ella  picked  up  a  hand-mirror,  and  eyed  the 

fit  of  her  skirt  in  the  glass — "as  a  family,"  she  resumed, 
after  a  moment,  "we  all  think  it's  the  wisest  thing  that 
Ken  could  do,  or  that  you  could  do,  makes  this  whole 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

thing  very  different  in  the  eyes  of  society  from  what 
it  might  be!  I  don't  say  it's  a  usual  marriage;  I  don't 
say  that  we'd  all  feel  as  favorably  toward  it  as  we  do 
if  the  circumstances  were  different,"  Ella  rambled  on, 
snapping  the  clasp  of  a  long  jeweled  chain,  and  pulling 
it  about  her  neck  to  a  becoming  position.  "But  I  do, 
say  that  it's  a  very  exceptional  opportunity  for  a  girl 
in  your  position,  and  one  that  any  sensible  girl  would 
jump  at.  I  may  be  Ken's  sister,"  finished  Ella,  rapidly 
assorting  rings  and  slipping  a  selected  few  upon  her 
fingers,  "but  I  must  say  that!" 

"I  know,"  said  Susan,  uncomfortably.  Ella,  sur- 
prised perhaps  at  the  listless  tone,  gave  her  a  quick 
glance. 

"Mama,"  said  Miss  Saunders,  with  a  little  color, 
"Mama  is  the  very  mildest  of  women,  but  as  Mama 
said,  'I  don't  see  what  more  any  girl  could  wish!'  Ken 
has  got  the  easiest  disposition  in  the  world,  if  he's  let 
alone,  and,  as  Hudson  said,  there's  nothing  really  the 
matter  with  him,  he  may  live  for  twenty  or  thirty  years, 
probably  will !" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Susan  said  quickly,  wishing  that  some 
full  and  intelligent  answer  would  suggest  itself  to 
her. 

"And  finally,"  Ella  said,  quite  ready  to  go  down- 
stairs for  an  informal  game  of  cards,  but  not  quite 
willing  to  leave  the  matter  here.  "Finally,  I  must  say, 
Sue,  that  I  think  this  shilly-shallying  is  very — very 
unbecoming.  I'm  not  asking  to  be  in  your  confidence, 
/  don't  care  one  way  or  the  other,  but  Mama  and  the 
Kid  have  always  been  awfully  kind  to  you 

"You've  all  been  angels,"  Susan  was  glad  to  say 
eagerly. 

"Awfully  kind  of  you,"  Ella  pursued,  "and  all  I  say 
is  this,  make  up  your  mind!  It's  unexpected,  and  it's 
sudden,  and  all  that, — very  well !  But  you're  of  age, 
and  you've  nobody  to  please  but  yourself,  and,  as  I 
say — as  I  say — while  it's  nothing  to  me,  I  like  you  and 
I  hate  to  have  you  make  a  fool  of  yourself!" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  337 

"Did  Ken  say  anything  to  you?"  Susan  asked,  with 
flaming  cheeks. 

"No,  he  just  said  something  to  Mama  about  it's 
being  a  shame  to  ask  a  girl  your  age  to  marry  a  man 
as  ill  as  he.  But  that's  all  sheer  nonsense,"  Ella  said 
briskly,  "and  it  only  goes  to  show  that  Ken  is  a  good 
deal  more  decent  than  people  might  think!  What 
earthly  objection  any  girl  could  have  I  can't  imagine 
myself!"  Ella  finished  pointedly. 

"Nobody  could!"  Susan  said  loyally. 

"Nobody  could, — exactly!"  Ella  said  in  a  satisfied 
tone.  "For  a  month  or  two,"  she  admitted  reasonably, 
"you  may  have  to  watch  his  health  pretty  closely.  I 
don't  deny  it.  But  you'll  be  abroad,  you'll  have  every- 
thing in  the  world  that  you  want.  And,  as  he  gets 
stronger,  you  can  go  about  more  and  more.  And, 
whatever  Hudson  says,  I  think  that  the  day  will  come 
when  he  can  live  where  he  chooses,  and  do  as  he  likes, 

just  like  anyone  else !  And  I  think "  Ella,  having 

convinced  herself  entirely  unaided  by  Susan,  was  now 
in  a  mellowed  mood.  "I  think  you're  doing  much  the 
wisest  thing!"  she  said.  "Go  up  and  see  him  later, 
there's  a  nice  child!  The  doctor's  coming  at  three; 
wait  until  he  goes." 

And  Ella  was  gone. 

Susan  shut  the  door  of  Ella's  room,  and  took  a 
deep  chair  by  a  window.  It  was  perhaps  the  only 
place  in  the  house  in  which  no  one  would  think  of 
looking  for  her,  and  she  still  felt  the  need  of  being 
alone. 

She  sat  back  in  the  chair,  and  folded  her  arms  across 
her  chest,  and  fell  to  deep  thinking.  She  had  let  Ella 
leave  her  under  a  misunderstanding,  not  because  she 
did  not  know  how  to  disabuse  Ella's  mind  of  the  idea 
that  she  would  marry  Kenneth,  and  not  because  she 
was  afraid  of  the  result  of  such  a  statement,  but  be- 
cause, in  her  own  mind,  she  could  not  be  sure  that 
Kenneth  Saunders,  with  his  millions,  was  not  her  best 
means  of  escape  from  a  step  even  more  serious  in  the 


338  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

eyes  of  the  world  than  this  marriage  would  have  been. 

If  she  would  be  pitied  by  a  few  people  for  marrying 
Kenneth,  she  would  be  envied  by  a  thousand.  The  law, 
the  church,  the  society  in  which  they  moved  could  do 
nothing  but  approve.  On  the  other  hand,  if  she  went 
away  with  Stephen  Bocqueraz,  all  the  world  would  rise 
up  to  blame  her  and  to  denounce  her.  A  third  course 
would  be  to  return  to  her  aunt's  house, — with  no  money, 
no  work,  no  prospects  of  either,  and  to  wait,  years 
perhaps 

No,  no,  she  couldn't  wait.  Rebellion  rose  in  her 
heart  at  the  mere  thought.  "I  love  him!"  said  Susafi 
to  herself,  thrilled  through  and  through  by  the  mere 
words.  What  would  life  be  without  him  now — without 
the  tall  and  splendid  figure,  the  big,  clever  hands,  the 
rich  and  well-trained  voice,  without  his  poetry,  his 
glowing  ideals,  his  intimate  knowledge  of  that  great 
world  in  whose  existence  she  had  always  had  a  vague 
and  wistful  belief? 

And  how  he  wanted  her !  Susan  could  feel  the 

nearness  of  his  eagerness,  without  sharing  it. 

She  herself  belonged  to  that  very  large  class  of 
women  for  whom  passion  is  only  a  rather-to-be-avoided 
word.  She  was  loving,  and  generous  where  she  loved, 
but  far  too  ignorant  of  essential  facts  regarding  her- 
self, and  the  world  about  her,  to  either  protect  herself 
from  being  misunderstood,  or  to  give  even  her  thoughts 
free  range,  had  she  desired  to  do  so.  What  knowledge 
she  had  had  come  to  her, — in  Heaven  alone  knows 
what  distorted  shape ! — from  some  hazily  remembered 
passage  in  a  play,  from  some  joke  whose  meaning  had 
at  first  entirely  escaped  her,  or  from  some  novel,  for- 
bidden by  Auntie  as  "not  nice,"  but  read  nevertheless, 
and  construed  into  a  hundred  vague  horrors  by  the 
mystified  little  brain. 

Lately  all  this  mass  of  curiously  mixed  information 
had  had  new  light  thrown  upon  it  because  of  the  sud- 
den personal  element  that  entered  into  Susan's  view. 
Love  became  the  great  Adventure,  marriage  was  no 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 


•      339 


longer  merely  a  question  of  gifts  and  new  clothes  and 
a  honeymoon  trip,  and  a  dear  little  newly  furnished 
establishment.  Nothing  sordid,  nothing  sensual, 
touched  Susan's  dreams  even  now,  but  she  began  to 
think  of  the  constant  companionship,  the  intimacy  of 
married  life,  the  miracle  of  motherhood,  the  courage 
of  the  woman  who  can  put  her  hand  in  any  man's 
hand,  and  walk  with  him  out  from  the  happy,  sheltered 
pale  of  girlhood,  and  into  the  big  world! 

She  was  interrupted  in  her  dreaming  by  Ella's  maid, 
who  put  her  head  into  the  room  with  an  apologetic: 

"Miss  Saunders  says  she's  sorry,  Miss  Brown,  but 
Mrs.  Richardson  isn't  here,  and  will  you  come  down 
to  fill  the  second  table?" 

Downstairs  went  Susan,  to  be  hastily  pressed  into 
service. 

"Heaven  bless  you,  Sue,"  said  Ella,  the  cards  al- 
ready being  dealt.  "Kate  Richardson  simply  hasn't 

come,  and  if  you'll  fill  in  until  she  does You  say 

hearts?"  Ella  interrupted  herself  to  say  to  her  nearest 
neighbor.  "Well,  I  can't  double  that.  I  lead  and 

you're  down,  Elsa " 

To  Susan  it  seemed  a  little  flat  to  sit  here  seriously 
watching  the  fall  of  the  cards,  deeply  concerned  in  the 
doubled  spade  or  the  dummy  for  no  trump.  When  she 
was  dummy  she  sat  watching  the  room  dreamily,  her 
thoughts  drifting  idly  to  and  fro.  It  was  all  curiously 
unreal, — Stephen  gone  to  a  club  dinner  in  the  city,  Ken- 
neth lying  upstairs,  she,  sitting  here,  playing  cards! 
When  she  thought  of  Kenneth  a  little  flutter  of  excite- 
ment seized  her;  with  Stephen's  memory  a  warm  flood 
of  unreasoning  happiness  engulfed  her. 
."I  beg  your  pardon !"  said  Susan,  suddenly  aroused. 

"Your  lead,  Miss  Brown " 

"Mine?    Oh,  surely.    You  made  it ?" 

"I  bridged  it.     Mrs.  Chauncey  made  it  diamonds." 

"Oh,  surely!"  Susan  led  at  random.     "Oh,  I  didn't 

mean  to  lead  that!"  she  exclaimed.     She  attempted  to 

play  the  hand,  and  the  following  hand,  with  all  her 


340  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

power,  and  presently  found  herself  the  dummy  again. 

Again  serious  thought  pressed  in  upon  her  from  all 
sides.  She  could  not  long  delay  the  necessity  of  letting 
Kenneth,  and  Kenneth's  family,  know  that  she  would 
not  do  her  share  in  their  most  recent  arrangement 

for  his  comfort.    And  after  that ?    Susan  had  no 

doubt  that  it  would  be  the  beginning  of  the  end  of 
her  stay  here.  Not  that  it  would  be  directly  given  as 
the  reason  for  her  going;  they  had  their  own  ways 
of  bringing  about  what  suited  them,  these  people. 

But  what  of  Stephen?  And  again  warmth  and  con- 
fidence and  joy  rose  in  her  heart.  How  big  and  true 
and  direct  he  was,  how  far  from  everything  that  flour- 
ished in  this  warm  and  perfumed  atmosphere  I  "It 
must  be  right  to  trust  him,"  Susan  said  to  herself,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  even  to  trust  him  supremely,  and 
to  brave  the  storm  that  would  follow,  would  be  a  step 
in  the  right  direction.  Out  of  the  unnatural  atmosphere 
of  this  house,  gone  forever  from  the  cold  and  repress- 
ing poverty  of  her  aunt's,  she  would  be  out  in  the  open 
air,  free  to  breathe  and  think  and  love  and  work 

"Oh,  that  nine  is  the  best,  Miss  Brown!  You 
trumped  it " 

Susan  brought  her  attention  to  the  game  again. 
When  the  cards  were  finally  laid  down,  tea  followed, 
and  Susan  must  pour  it.  After  that  she  ran  up  to  her 
room  to  find  Emily  there,  dressing  for  dinner. 

"Oh,  Sue,  there  you  are!  Listen,  Mama  wants  you' 
to  go  in  and  see  her  a  minute  before  dinner,"  Emily 
said. 

"I  am  dead!"  Susan  began  flinging  off  her  things, 
loosened  the  masses  of  her  hair,  and  shook  it  about 
her,  tore  off  her  tight  slippers  and  flung  them  away. 

"Should  think  you  would  be,"  Emily  said  sympatheti- 
cally. She  was  evidently  ready  for  confidences,  but 
Susan  evaded  them.  At  least  she  owed  no  explanation 
to  Emily! 

"El  wants  to  put  you  up  for  the  club,"  called  Emily 
above  the  rush  of  hot  water  into  the  bathtub. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  341 

"Why  should  she?"  Susan  called  back  smiling,  but 
uneasy,  but  Emily  evidently  did  not  hear. 

"Don't  forget  to  look  in  on  Mama,"  she  said  again, 
when  Susan  was  dressed.  Susan  nodded. 

"But,  Lord,  this  is  a  terrible  place  to  try  to  think 
in!"  the  girl  thought,  knocking  dutifully  on  Mrs. 
Saunders'  door. 

The  old  lady,  in  a  luxurious  dressing-gown,  was  lying 
on  the  wide  couch  that  Miss  Baker  had  drawn  up 
before  the  fire. 

"There's  the  girl  I  thought  had  forgotten  all  about 
me!"  said  Mrs.  Saunders  in  tremulous,  smiling  re- 
proach. Susan  went  over  and,  although  uncomfortably 
conscious  of  the  daughterliness  of  the  act,  knelt  down 
beside  her,  and  squeezed  the  little  shell-like  hand.  Miss 
Baker  smiled  from  the  other  side  of  the  room  where 
she  was  folding  up  the  day-covers  of  the  bed  with  wind- 
mill sweeps  of  her  arms. 

"Well,  now,  I  didn't  want  to  keep  you  from  your  din- 
ner," murmured  the  old  lady.  "I  just  wanted  to  give 
you  a  little  kiss,  and  tell  you  that  I've  been  thinking 
about  you!" 

Susan  gave  the  nurse,  who  was  barely  out  of  hear- 
ing, a  troubled  look.  If  Miss  Baker  had  not  been 
there,  she  would  have  had  the  courage  to  tell  Kenneth's 
mother  the  truth.  As  it  was,  Mrs.  Saunders  misinter- 
preted her  glance. 

"We  won't  say  one  word!"  she  whispered  with  child- 
ish pleasure  in  the  secret.  The  little  claw-like  hands 
drew  Susan  down  for  a  kiss;  "Now,  you  and  Doctor 
Cooper  shall  just  have  some  little  talks  about  my  boy, 
and  in  a  year  he'll  be  just  as  well  as  ever!"  whispered 
the  foolish,  fond  little  mother,  "and  we'll  go  into  town 
next  week  and  buy  all  sorts  of  pretty  things,  shall  we? 
And  we'll  forget  all  about  this  bad  sickness!  Now, 
run  along,  lovey,  it's  late  I" 

•  Susan,  profoundly  apprehensive,  went  slowly  out  of 
the  room.  She  turned  to  the  stairway  that  led  to  the 
upper  hall  to  hear  Ella's  voice  from  her  own  room : 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Sue!     Going  up  to  see  Ken?" 

"Yes,"  Susan  said  without  turning  back. 

"That's  a  good  child,"  Ella  called  gaily.  "The 
kid's  gone  down  to  dinner,  but  don't  hurry.  I'm  dining 
out." 

"I'll  be  down  directly,"  Susan  said,  going  on.  She 
crossed  the  dimly  lighted,  fragrant  upper  hall,  and 
knocked  on  Kenneth's  door. 

It  was  instantly  opened  by  the  gracious  and  gray- 
haired  Miss  Trumbull,  the  night  nurse.  Kenneth,  in 
a  gorgeous  embroidered  Mandarin  coat,  was  sitting 
up  and  enjoying  his  supper. 

"Come  in,  woman,"  he  said,  smiling  composedly. 
Susan  felt  warmed  and  heartened  by  his  manner,  and 
came  to  take  her  chair  by  the  bed.  Miss  Trumbull 
disappeared,  and  the  two  had  the  big,  quiet  room  to 
themselves. 

"Well,"  said  Kenneth,  laying  down  a  wish-bone,  and 
giving  her  a  shrewd  smile.  "You  can't  do  it,  and  you're 
afraid  to  say  so,  is  that  it?" 

A  millstone  seemed  lifted  from  Susan's  heart.  She 
smiled,  and  the  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes. 

"I — honestly,  I'd  rather  not,"  she  said  eagerly. 

"That  other  fellow,  eh?"  he  added,  glancing  at  her 
before  he  attacked  another  bone  with  knife  and  fork. 

Taken  unawares,  she  could  not  answer.  The  color 
rushed  into  her  face.  She  dropped  her  eyes. 

"Peter  Coleman,  isn't  it?"  Kenneth  pursued. 

"Peter  Coleman !"  Susan  might  never  have  heard  the 
name  before,  so  unaffected  was  her  astonishment. 

"Well,  isn't  it?" 

Susan  felt  in  her  heart  the  first  stirring  of  a  genuine 
affection  for  Kenneth  Saunders.  He  seemed  so  bright, 
so  well  to-night,  he  was  so  kind  and  brotherly. 

"It's  Stephen,"  said  she,  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse 
to  confide.  He  eyed  her  in  blank  astonishment,  and 
Susan  saw  in  it  a  sort  of  respect.  But  he  only  answered 
by  a  long  whistle. 

"Gosh,  that  is  tough,"  he  said,  after  a  few  moments 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  343 

of  silence.  "That  is  the  limit,  you  poor  kid !  Of  course 
his  wife  is  particularly  well  and  husky?" 

"Particularly!"  echoed  Susan  with  a  shaky  laugh. 
For  the  first  time  in  their  lives  she  and  Kenneth  talked 
together  with  entire  naturalness  and  with  pleasure. 
Susan's  heart  felt  lighter  than  it  had  for  many  a  day. 

"Stephen  can't  shake  his  wife,  I  suppose?"  he  asked 
presently. 

"Not — not  according  to  the  New  York  law,  I  be- 
lieve," Susan  said. 

"Well — that's  a  case  where  virtue  is  its  own  reward, 
— not''  said  Kenneth.  "And  he — he  cares,  does  he?" 
he  asked,  with  shy  interest. 

A  rush  of  burning  color,  and  the  light  in  Susan's 
eyes,  were  her  only  answer. 

"Shucks,  what  a  rotten  shame!"  Kenneth  said  re- 
gretfully. "So  he  goes  away  to  Japan,  does  he?  Lord, 
what  a  shame " 

Susan  really  thought  he  was  thinking  more  of  her 
heart-affair  than  his  own,  when  she  finally  left  him. 
Kenneth  was  heartily  interested  in  the  ill-starred  ro- 
mance. He  bade  her  good-night  with  real  affection  and 
sympathy. 

Susan  stood  bewildered  for  a  moment,  outside  the 
door,  listening  to  the  subdued  murmurs  that  came  up 
from  the  house,  blinking,  after  the  bright  glow  of 
Kenneth's  lamps,  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall.  Pres- 
ently she  crossed  to  a  wide  window  that  faced  across 
the  village,  toward  the  hills.  It  was  closed;  the  heavy 
glass  gave  back  only  a  dim  reflection  of  herself,  bare- 
armed,  bare-throated,  with  spangles  winking  dully  on 
her  scarf. 

She  opened  the  window  and  the  sweet  cold  night 
air  came  in  with  a  rush,  and  touched  her  hot  cheeks 
and  aching  head  with  an  infinite  coolness.  Susan  knelt 
down  and  drank  deep  of  it,  raised  her  eyes  to  the  silent 
circle  of  the  hills,  the  starry  arch  of  the  sky. 

There  was  no  moon,  but  Tamalpais'  great  shoulder 
was  dimly  outlined  against  darker  blackness,  and  mov- 


344  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

ing,  twinkling  dots  showed  where  ferryboats  were  cross- 
ing and  recrossing  the  distant  bay.  San  Francisco's 
lights  glittered  like  a  chain  of  gems,  but  San  Rafael, 
except  for  a  half-concealed  household  light,  here  and 
there  under  the  trees,  was  in  darkness.  Faint  echoes 
of  dance-music  came  from  the  hotel,  the  insistent,  throb- 
bing bass  of  a  waltz ;  Susan  shuddered  at  the  thought  of 
it;  the  crowd  and  the  heat,  the  laughing  and  flirting,  the 
eating  and  drinking.  Her  eyes  searched  the  blackness 
between  the  stars; — oh,  to  plunge  into  those  infinite 
deeps,  to  breathe  the  untainted  air  of  those  limitless 
great  spaces! 

Garden  odors,  wet  and  sweet,  came  up  to  her;  she 
got  the  exquisite  breath  of  drenched  violets,  of  pine- 
trees.  Susan  thought  of  her  mother's  little  garden, 
years  ago,  of  the  sunken  stone  ale-bottles  that  framed 
the  beds,  of  alyssum  and  marigolds  and  wall-flowers 
and  hollyhocks  growing  all  together.  She  remembered 
her  little  self,  teasing  for  heart-shaped  cookies,  or 
gravely  attentive  to  the  bargain  driven  between  her 
mother  and  the  old  Chinese  vegetable-vendor,  with  his 
loaded,  swinging  baskets.  It  went  dimly  through 
Susan's  mind  that  she  had  grown  too  far  away  from 
the  good  warm  earth.  It  was  years  since  she  had 
had  the  smell  of  it  and  the  touch  of  it,  or  had  lain  down 
in  its  long  grasses.  At  her  aunt's  house,  in  the  office, 
and  here,  it  seemed  so  far  away  I  Susan  had  a  hazy 
vision  of  some  sensible  linen  gardening  dresses — of 
herself  out  in  the  spring  sunshine,  digging,  watering, 
getting  happier  and  dirtier  and  hotter  every  min- 
ute  

Somebody  was  playing  Walther's  song  from  "Die 
Meistersinger"  far  downstairs,  and  the  plaintive  pas- 
sionate notes  drew  Susan  as  if  they  had  been  the  cry 
of  her  name.  She  went  down  to  find  Emily  and  Peter 
Coleman  laughing  and  flirting  over  a  box  of  chocolates, 
at  the  inglenook  seat  in  the  hall,  and  Stephen  Bocqueraz 
alone  in  the  drawing-room,  at  the  piano.  He  stopped 
playing  as  she  came  in,  and  they  walked  to  the  fire 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  34-5 

and  took  opposite  chairs  beside  the  still  brightly  burn- 
ing logs. 

"Anything  new?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  lots !"  Susan  said  wearily.  "I've  seen  Kenneth. 
But  they  do»'t  know  that  I  can't — can't  do  it.  And 
they're  rather  taking  it  for  granted  that  I  am  going 
to!" 

"Going  to  marry  him!"  he  asked  aghast.  "Surely 
you  haven't  equivocated  about  it,  Susan?"  he  asked 
sharply. 

"Not  with  him !"  she  answered  in  quick  self-defense, 
with  a  thrill  for  the  authoritative  tone.  "I  went  up 
there,  tired  as  I  am,  and  told  him  the  absolute  truth," 
said  Susan.  "But  they  may  not  know  it!" 

"I  confess  I  don't  see  why,"  Bocqueraz  said,  in  dis- 
approval. "It  would  seem  to  me  simple  enough  to 

"Oh,  perhaps  it  does  seem  simple,  to  you!"  Susan 
defended  herself  wearily,  "but  it  isn't  so  easy!  Ella  is 
dreadful  when  she's  angry, — I  don't  know  quite  what 
I  will  do,  if  this  ends  my  being  here " 

"Why  should  it?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"Because  it's  that  sort  of  a  position.  I'm  here  as 
long  as  I'm  wanted,"  Susan  said  bitterly,  "and  when 
I'm  not,  there'll  be  a  hundred  ways  to  end  it  all.  Ella 
will  resent  this,  and  Mrs.  Saunders  will  resent  it,  and 
even  if  I  was  legally  entitled  to  stay,  it  wouldn't  be 
very  pleasant  under  those  circumstances !"  She  rested 
her  head  against  the  curved  back  of  her  chair,  and  he 
saw  tears  slip  between  her  lashes. 

"Why,  my  darling!  My  dearest  little  girl,  you 
mustn't  cry!"  he  said,  in  distress.  "Come  to  the  win- 
dow and  let's  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air!" 

He  crossed  to  a  French  window,  and  held  back  the 
heavy  curtain  to  let  her  step  out  to  the  wide  side  porch. 
Susan's  hand  held  his  tightly  in  the  darkness,  and  he 
knew  by  the  sound  of  her  breathing  that  she  was  cry- 
ing. 

"I  don't  know  what  made  me  go  to  pieces  this  way," 


346  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

she  said,  after  a  moment.  "But  it  has  been  such  a 
day!"  And  she  composedly  dried  her  eyes,  and  re- 
stored his  handkerchief  to  him. 

"You  poor  little  girl!"  he  said  tenderly.  "-  —Is 
it  going  to  be  too  cold  out  here  for  you,  Sue?" 

"No-o!"  said  Susan,  smiling,  "it's  heavenly!" 

"Then  we'll  talk.  And  we  must  make  the  most  of 
this  too,  for  they  may  not  give  us  another  chance! 
Cheer  up,  sweetheart,  it's  only  a  short  time  now !  As 
you  say,  they're  going  to  resent  the  fact  that  my  girl 
doesn't  jump  at  the  chance  to  ally  herself  with  all  this 
splendor,  and  to-morrow  may  change  things  all  about 
for  every  one  of  us.  Now,  Sue,  I  told  Ella  to-day  that 
I  sail  for  Japan  on  Sunday " 

"Oh,  my  God!"  Susan  said,  taken  entirely  unawares. 

He  was  near  enough  to  put  his  arm  about  her 
shoulders. 

"My  little  girl,"  he  said,  gravely,  "did  you  think 
that  I  was  going  to  leave  you  behind?" 

"I  couldn't  bear  it,"  Susan  said  simply. 

"You  could  bear  it  better  than  I  could,"  he  assured 
her.  "But  we'll  never  be  separated  again  in  this  life, 
I  hope !  And  every  hour  of  rny  life  I'm  going  to  spend 
in  trying  to  show  you  what  it  means  to  me  to  have 
you — with  your  beauty  and  your  wit  and  your  charm — 
trust  me  to  straighten  out  all  this  tangle !  You  know 
you  are  the  most  remarkable  woman  I  ever  knew, 
Susan,"  he  interrupted  himself  to  say,  seriously.  "Oh, 
you  can  shake  your  head,  but  wait  until  other  people 
agree  with  me!  Wait  until  you  catch  the  faintest 
glimpse  of  what  our  life  is  going  to  be!  And  how 
you'll  love  the  sea!  And  that  reminds  me,"  he  was 
all  business-like  again,  "the  Nippon  Mam  sails  on  Sun- 
day. You  and  I  sail  with  her." 

He  paused,  and  in  the  gradually  brightening  gloom 
Susan's  eyes  met  his,  but  she  did  not  speak  nor  stir. 

"It's  the  only  way,  dear!"  he  said  urgently.  "You 
see  that?  I  can't  leave  you  here  and  things  cannot  go 
on  this  way.  It  will  be  hard  for  a  little  while,  but 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  347 

we'll  make  it  a  wonderful  year,  Susan,  and  when  it's 
over,  I'll  take  my  wife  home  with  me  to  New  York." 

"It  seems  incredible,"  said  Susan  slowly,  "that  it  is 
ever  right  to  do  a  thing  like  this.  You — you  think 
I'm  a  strong  woman,  Stephen,"  she  went  on,  groping 
for  the  right  words,  "but  I'm  not — in  this  way.  I  think 
I  could  be  strong,"  Susan's  eyes  were  wistful,  "I  could 
be  strong  if  my  husband  were  a  pioneer,  or  if  I  had  an 
invalid  husband,  or  if  I  had  to — to  work  at  anything," 
she  elucidated.  "I  could  even  keep  a  store  or  plow, 
or  go  out  and  shoot  game !  But  my  life  hasn't  run  that 
way,  I  can't  seem  to  find  what  I  want  to  do,  I'm  always 
bound  by  conditions  I  didn't  make " 

"Exactly,  dear!  And  now  you  are  going  to  make 
conditions  for  yourself,"  he  added  eagerly,  as  she  hesi- 
tated. Susan  sighed. 

"Not  so  soon  as  Sunday,"  she  said,  after  a  pause. 

"Sunday  too  soon?  Very  well,  little  girl.  If  you 
want  to  go  Sunday,  we'll  go.  And,  if  you  say  not,  I'll 
await  your  plans,"  he  agreed. 

"But,  Stephen — what  about  tickets?" 

"The  tickets  are  upstairs,"  he  told  her.  "I  reserved 
the  prettiest  suite  on  board  for  Miss  Susan  Bocqueraz, 
my  niece,  who  is  going  with  me  to  meet  her  father  in 
India,  and  a  near-by  stateroom  for  myself.  But,  of 
course,  I'll  forfeit  these  reservations  rather  than  hurry 
or  distress  you  now.  When  I  saw  the  big  liner,  Susan, 
the  cleanness  and  brightness  and  airiness  of  it  all;  and 
when  I  thought  of  the  deliciousness  of  getting  away 
from  the  streets  and  smells  and  sounds  of  the  city,  out 
on  the  great  Pacific,  I  thought  I  would  be  mad  to  pro- 
long this  existence  here  an  unnecessary  day.  But  that's 
for  you  to  say." 

"I  see,"  she  said  dreamily.  And  through  her  veins, 
like  a  soothing  draught,  ran  the  premonition  of  sur- 
render. Delicious  to  let  herself  go,  to  trust  him,  to 
get  away  from  all  the  familiar  sights  and  faces !  She 
turned  in  the  darkness  and  laid  both  hands  on  his 
shoulders.  "I'll  be  ready  on  Sunday,"  said  she  gravely. 


348  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"I  suppose,  as  a  younger  girl,  I  would  have  thought 
myself  mad  to  think  of  this.  But  I  have  been  wrong 
about  so  many  of  those  old  ideas;  I  don't  feel  sure  of 
anything  any  more.  Life  in  this  house  isn't  right, 
Stephen,  and  certainly  the  old  life  at  Auntie's, — all 
debts  and  pretense  and  shiftlessness, — isn't  right 
either." 

"You'll  not  be  sorry,  dear,"  he  told  her,  holding 
her  hands. 

An  instant  later  they  were  warned,  by  a  sudden  flood 
of  light  on  the  porch,  that  Mr.  Coleman  had  come  to 
the  open  French  window. 

"Come  in,  you  idiots !"  said  Peter.  "We're  hunting 
for  something  to  eat!" 

"You  come  out,  it's  a  heavenly  night!"  Stephen  said 
readily. 

"Nothing  stirring,"  Mr.  Coleman  said,  sauntering 
toward  them  nevertheless.  "Don't  you  believe  a  word 
she  says,  Mr.  Bocqueraz,  she's  an  absolute  liar!" 

"Peter,  go  back,  we're  talking  books,"  said  Susan, 
unruffled. 

"Well,  I  read  a  book  once,  Susan,"  he  assured  her 
proudly.  "Say,  let's  go  over  to  the  hotel  and  have  a 
dance,  what?" 

"Madman !"  the  writer  said,  in  indulgent  amusement, 
as  Peter  went  back.  "We'll  be  in  directly,  Coleman!" 
he  called.  Then  he  said  quickly,  and  in  a  low  tone  to 
Susan.  "Shall  you  stay  here  until  Sunday,  or  would 
you  rather  be  with  your  own  people?" 

"It  just  depends  upon  what  Ella  and  Emily  do," 
Susan  answered.  "Kenneth  may  not  tell  them.  If  he 
does,  it  might  be  better  to  go.  This  is  Tuesday.  Of 
course  I  don't  know,  Stephen,  they  may  be  very  gen- 
erous about  it,  they  may  make  it  as  pleasant  as  they 
can.  But  certainly  Emily  isn't  sorry  to  find  some  reason 
for  terminating  my  stay  here.  We've — perhaps  it's  my 
fault,  but  we've  been  rather  grating  on  each  other 
lately.  So  I  think  it's  pretty  safe  to  say  that  I  will  go 
home  on  Wednesday  or  Thursday." 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  349 

"Good,"  he  said.     "I  can  see  you  there!" 

"Oh,  will  you?"  said  Susan,  pleased. 

"Oh,  will  I!  And  another  thing,  dear,  you'll  need 
some  things.  A  big  coat  for  the  steamer,  and  some 
light  gowns — but  we  can  get  those.  We'll  do  some 
shopping  in  Paris " 

He  had  touched  a  wrong  chord,  and  Susan  winced. 

"I  have  some  money,"  she  assured  him,  hastily,  "and 
I'd  rather — rather  get  those  things  myself!" 

"You  shall  do  as  you  like,"  he  said  gravely.  Silently 
and  thoughtfully  they  went  back  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER    VI 

SUSAN  lay  awake  almost  all  night,  quiet  and  wide- 
eyed  in  the  darkness,  thinking,  thinking,  thinking.  She 
arraigned  herself  mentally  before  a  jury  of  her  peers, 
and  pleaded  her  own  case.  She  did  not  think  of 
Stephen  Bocqueraz  to-night, — thought  of  him  indeed 
did  not  lead  to  rational  argument! — but  she  confined 
her  random  reflections  to  the  conduct  of  other  women. 
There  was  a  moral  code  of  course,  there  were  Com- 
mandments. But  by  whose  decree  might  some  of 
these  be  set  aside,  and  ignored,  while  others  must  still 
be  observed  in  the  letter  and  the  spirit?  Susan  knew 
that  Ella  would  discharge  a  maid  for  stealing  per- 
fumery or  butter,  and  within  the  hour  be  entertain- 
ing a  group  of  her  friends  with  the  famous  story  of 
her  having  taken  paste  jewels  abroad,  to  be  replaced 
in  London  by  real  stones  and  brought  triumphantly 
home  under  the  very  eyes  of  the  custom-house  in- 
spectors. She  had  heard  Mrs.  Porter  Pitts,  whose 
second  marriage  followed  her  divorce  by  only  a  few 
hours,  addressing  her  respectful  classes  in  the  Correc- 
tion Home  for  Wayward  Girls.  She  had  heard  Mrs. 
Leonard  Orvis  congratulated  upon  her  lineage  and 
family  connections  on  the  very  same  occasion  when 
Mrs.  Orvis  had  entertained  a  group  of  intimates  with 
a  history,  of  her  successful  plan  for  keeping  the  Orvis 
nursery  empty. 

It  was  to  the  Ellas,  the  Pitts,  the  Orvises,  that 
Susan  addressed  her  arguments.  They  had  broken 
laws.  She  was  only  temporarily  following  their  ex- 
ample. She  heard  the  clock  strike  four,  before  she 
went  to  sleep,  and  was  awakened  by  Emily  at  nine 
o'clock  the  next  morning. 

350 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  351 

It  was  a  rainy,  gusty  morning,  with  showers  slap- 
ping against  the  windows.  The  air  in  the  house  was 
too  warm,  radiators  were  purring  everywhere,  logs 
crackled  in  the  fireplaces  of  the  dining-room  and  hall. 
Susan,  looking  into  the  smaller  library,  saw  Ella  in 
a  wadded  silk  robe,  comfortably  ensconced  beside  the 
fire,  with  the  newspapers. 

"Good-morning,  Sue,"  said  Ella  politely.  Susan's 
heart  sank.  "Come  in,"  said  Ella.  "Had  your  break- 
fast?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Susan,  coming  in. 

"Well,  I  just  want  to  speak  to  you  a  moment," 
said  Ella,  and  Susan  knew,  from  the  tone,  that  she 
was  in  for  an  unpleasant  half-hour.  Emily,  follow- 
ing Susan,  entered  the  library,  too,  and  seated  herself 
on  the  window-seat.  Susan  did  not  sit  down. 

"I've  got  something  on  my  mind,  Susan,"  Ella  said, 
frowning  as  she  tossed  aside  her  papers,  "and, — you 
know  me.  I'm  like  all  the  Roberts,  when  I  want  to 
say  a  thing,  I  say  it!"  Ella  eyed  her  groomed  fingers 
a  moment,  bit  at  one  before  she  went  on.  "Now, 
there's  only  one  important  person  in  this  house,  Sue, 
as  I  always  tell  everyone,  and  that's  Mamma!  'Em 
and  I  don't  matter,'  I  say,  'but  Mamma's  old,  and  she 
hasn't  very  much  longer  to  live,  and  she  does  count!' 
I — you  may  not  always  see  it,"  Ella  went  on  with 
dignity,  "but  I  always  arrange  my  engagements  so 
that  Mamma  shall  be  the  first  consideration,  she  likes 
to  have  me  go  places,  and  I  like  to  go,  but  many  and 
many  a  night  when  you  and  Em  think  that  I  am 
out  somewhere  I'm  in  there  with  Mamma " 

Susan  knew  that  they  were  in  the  realm  of  pure 
fiction  now,  but  she  could  only  listen.  She  glanced  at 
Emily,  but  Emily  only  looked  impressed  and  edified. 

"So — "  Ella,  unchallenged,  went  on.  "So  when  I 
see  anyone  inclined  to  be  rude  to  Mamma,  Sue " 

"As  you  certainly  were "  Emily  began. 

"Keep  out  of  this,  Baby,"  Ella  said.  Susan  asked 
in  astonishment: 


352  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"But,  good  gracious,  Ella!  When  was  I  ever  rude 
to  your  mother?" 

"Just — one — moment,  Sue,"  Ella  said,  politely  de- 
clining to  be  hurried.  "Well !  So  when  I  realize  that 
you  deceived  Mamma,  Sue,  it — I've  always  liked  you, 
and  I've  always  said  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
allowance  to  be  made  for  you,"  Ella  interrupted  her- 
self to  say  kindly,  "but,  you  know,  that  is  the  one 

thing  I  can't  forgive! — In  just  a  moment '  she 

added,  as  Susan  was  about  to  speak  again.  "Well, 
about  a  week  ago,  as  you  know,  Ken's  doctor  said 
that  he  must  positively  travel.  Mamma  isn't  well 
enough  to  go,  the  kid  can't  go,  and  I  can't  get  away 
just  now,  even,"  Ella  was  deriving  some  enjoyment 
from  her  new  role  of  protectress,  "even  if  I  would 
leave  Mamma.  What  Ken  suggested,  you  know, 
seemed  a  suitable  enough  arrangement  at  the  time, 
although  I  think,  and  I  know  Mamma  thinks,  that  it 
was  just  one  of  the  poor  boy's  ideas  which  might 
have  worked  very  well,  and  might  not!  One  never 
can  tell  about  such  things.  Be  that  as  it  may,  how- 
ever  " 

"Oh,  Ella,  what  on  earth  are  you  getting  at!"  asked 
Susan,  in  sudden  impatience. 

"Really,  Sue!"  Emily  said,  shocked  at  this  irrev- 
erence, but  Ella,  flushing  a  little,  proceeded  with  a 
little  more  directness. 

"I'm  getting  at  this — please  shut  up,  Baby!  You 
gave  Mamma  to  understand  that  it  was  all  right  be- 
tween you  and  Ken,  and  Mamma  told  me  so  before 
I  went  to  the  Grahams'  dinner,  and  I  gave  Eva  Gra- 
ham a  pretty  strong  hint!  Now  Ken  tells  Mamma 
that  that  isn't  so  at  all, — I  must  say  Ken,  for  a  sick 
boy,  acted  very  well!  And  really,  Sue,  to  have  you 
willing  to  add  anything  to  Mamma's  natural  distress 
and  worry  now  it, — well,  I  don't  like  it,  and  I  say  so 
frankly!" 

Susan,  angered  past  the  power  of  reasonable  speech, 
remained  silent  for  half-a-minute,  holding  the  back  of 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

a  chair  with  both  hands,  and  looking  gravely  into 
Ella's  face. 

uls  that  all?"  she  asked  mildly. 

"Except  that  I'm  surprised  at  you,"  Ella  said  a  little 
nettled. 

"I'm  not  going  to  answer  you,"  Susan  said,  "because 
you  know  very  well  that  I  have  always  loved  your 
Mother,  and  that  I  deceived  nobody!  And  you  can't 
make  me  think  she  has  anything  to  do  with  thisl  It 
isn't  my  fault  that  I  don't  want  to  marry  your  brother, 
and  Emily  knows  how  utterly  unfair  this  is !" 

"Really,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it!"  Emily 
said  airily. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  Susan  said,  at  white  heat.  She 
turned  and  went  quietly  from  the  room. 

She  went  upstairs,  and  sat  down  crosswise  on  a 
small  chair,  and  stared  gloomily  out  of  the  window. 
She  hated  this  house,  she  said  to  herself,  and  every- 
one in  it!  A  maid,  sympathetically  fluttering  about, 
asked  Miss  Brown  if  she  would  like  her  breakfast 
brought  up. 

"Oh,  I  would!"  said  Susan  gratefully.  Lizzie  pres- 
ently brought  in  a  tray,  and  arranged  an  appetizing 
little  meal. 

"They're  something  awful,  that's  what  I  say,"  said 
Lizzie  presently  in  a  cautious  undertone.  "But  I've 
been  here  twelve  years,  and  I  say  there's  worse  places! 
Miss  Ella  may  be  a  little  raspy  now,  Miss  Brown, 
but  don't  you  take  it  to  heart!"  Susan,  the  better  for 
hot  coffee  and  human  sympathy,  laughed  out  in  cheer- 
ful revulsion  of  feeling. 

"Things  are  all  mixed  up,  Lizzie,  but  it's  not  my 
fault,"  she  said  gaily. 

"Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  the  literal  Lizzie, 
referring  to  the  tray.  "I  pile  'em  up  anyhow  to  carry 
'em  downstairs!" 

Breakfast  over,  Susan  still  loitered  in  her  own  apart- 
ments. She  wanted  to  see  Stephen,  but  not  enough 
to  risk  encountering  someone  else  in  the  halls.  At 


854  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

about  eleven  o'clock,  Ella  knocked  at  the  door,  and 
came  in. 

"I'm  in  a  horrible  rush,"  said  Ella,  sitting  down  on 
the  bed  and  interesting  herself  immediately  in  a  silk 
workbag  of  Emily's  that  hung  there.  "I  only  want 
to  say  this,  Sue,"  she  began.  "It  has  nothing  to  do 
with  what  we  were  talking  of  this  morning,  but — I've 
just  been  discussing  it  with  Mamma ! — but  we  all  feel, 
and  Fm  sure  you  do,  too,  that  this  is  an  upset  sort 
of  time.  Emily,  now,"  said  Ella,  reaching  her  sister's 
name  with  obvious  relief,  "Em's  not  at  all  well,  and 
she  feels  that  she  needs  a  nurse, — I'm  going  to  try 
to  get  that  nurse  Betty  Brock  had, — Em  may  have  to 
go  back  to  the  hospital,  in  fact,  and  Mamma  is  so 

nervous   about   Ken,   and   I "      Ella  cleared   her 

throat,  "I  feel  this  way  about  it,"  she  said.     "When 
you  came  here  it  was  just  an  experiment,  wasn't  it?" 

"Certainly,"  Susan  agreed,  very  red  in  the  face. 

"Certainly,  and  a  most  successful  one,  too,"  Ella 
conceded  relievedly.  "But,  of  course,  if  Mamma  takes 
Baby  abroad  in  the  spring, — you  sse  how  it  is?  And 
of  course,  even  in  case  of  a  change  now,  we'd  want 
you  to  take  your  time.  Or, — I'll  tell  you,  suppose 
you  go  home  for  a  visit  with  your  aunt,  now.  Mon- 
day is  Christmas,  and  then,  after  New  Year's,  we 
can  write  about  it,  if  you  haven't  found  anything  else 
you  want  to  do,  and  I'll  let  you  know " 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  Susan  said  quietly,  but 
with  a  betraying  color.  "Certainly,  I  think  that  would 
be  wisest." 

"Well,  I  think  so,"  said  Ella  with  a  long  breath. 
"Now,  don't  be  in  a  hurry,  even  if  Miss  Polk  comes, 
because  you  could  sleep  upstairs " 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  go  at  once — to-day,"  Susan  said. 

"Indeed  not,  in  this  rain,"  Ella  said  with  her 
pleasant,  half-humorous  air  of  concern.  "Mamma 
and  Baby  would  think  I'd  scared  you  away.  To- 
morrow, Sue,  if  you're  in  such  a  hurry.  But  this 
afternoon  some  people  are  coming  in  to  meet  Stephen 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  355 

— he's  really  going  on  Sunday,  he  says, — stay  and 
pour!" 

It  would  have  been  a  satisfaction  to  Susan's  pride 
to  refuse.  She  knew  that  Ella  really  needed  her  this 
afternoon,  and  would  have  liked  to  punish  that  lady 
to  that  extent.  But  hurry  was  undignified  and  cow- 
ardly, and  Stephen's  name  was  a  charm,  and  so  it 
happened  that  Susan  found  herself  in  the  drawing- 
room  at  five  o'clock,  in  the  center  of  a  chattering 
group,  and  stirred,  as  she  was  always  stirred,  by- 
Stephen's  effect  on  the  people  he  met.  He  found 
time  to  say  to  her  only  a  few  words,  "You  are  more 
adorable  than  ever!"  but  they  kept  Susan's  heart  sing- 
ing all  evening,  and  she  and  Emily  spent  the  hours 
after  dinner  in  great  harmony;  greater  indeed  than 
they  had  enjoyed  for  months. 

The  next  day  she  said  her  good-byes,  agitated  be- 
yond the  capacity  to  feel  any  regret,  for  Stephen 
Bocqueraz  had  casually  announced  his  intention  to  take 
the  same  train  that  she  did  for  the  city.  Ella  gave 
her  her  check;  not  for  the  sixty  dollars  that  would 
have  been  Susan's  had  she  remained  to  finish  out  her 
month,  but  for  ten  dollars  less. 

Emily  chattered  of  Miss  Polk,  "she  seemed  to  think 
I  was  so  funny  and  so  odd,  when  we  met  her  at 
Betty's,"  said  Emily,  "isn't  she  crazy?  Do  you  think 
I'm  funny  and  odd,  Sue?" 

Stephen  put  her  in  a  carriage  at  the  ferry  and  they 
went  shopping  together.  He  told  her  that  he  wanted 
to  get  some  things  "for  a  small  friend,"  and  Susan, 
radiant  in  the  joy  of  being  with  him,  in  the  delicious 
bright  winter  sunshine,  could  not  stay  his  hand  when 
he  bought  the  "small  friend"  a  delightful  big  rough 
coat,  which  Susan  obligingly  tried  on,  and  a  green 
and  blue  plaid,  for  steamer  use,  a  trunk,  and  a  parasol 
"because  it  looked  so  pretty  and  silly,"  and  in  Shreve's, 
as  they  loitered  about,  a  silver  scissors  and  a  gold 
thimble,  a  silver  stamp-box  and  a  traveler's  inkwell,. 


356  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

a  little  silver  watch  no  larger  than  a  twenty-five-cent 
piece,  a  little  crystal  clock,  and,  finally,  a  ring,  with 
three  emeralds  set  straight  across  it,  the  loveliest  great 
bright  stones  that  Susan  had  ever  seen,  "green  for  an 
Irish  gir-rl,"  said  Stephen. 

Then  they  went  to  tea,  and  Susan  laughed  at  him 
because  he  remembered  that  Orange  Pekoe  was  her 
greatest  weakness,  and  he  laughed  at  Susan  because 
she  was  so  often  distracted  from  what  she  was  saying 
by  the  flash  of  her  new  ring. 

"What  makes  my  girl  suddenly  look  so  sober?" 

Susan  smiled,  colored. 

"I  was  thinking  of  what  people  will  say." 

"I  think  you  over-estimate  the  interest  that  the  world 
is  going  to  take  in  our  plans,  Susan,"  he  said,  gravely, 
after  a  thoughtful  moment.  "We  take  our  place  in 
New  York,  in  a  year  or  two,  as  married  people. 
'Mrs.  Bocqueraz'  " — the  title  thrilled  Susan  unex- 
pectedly,— "  '  Mrs.  Bocqueraz  is  his  second  wife,' 
people  will  say.  'They  met  while  they  were  both 
traveling  about  the  world,  I  believe.'  And  that's  the 
end  of  it!" 

"But  the  newspapers  may  get  it,"  Susan  said,  fear- 
fully. 

"I  don't  see  how,"  he  reassured  her.  "Ella  nat- 
urally can't  give  it  to  them,  for  she  will  think  you  are 
at  your  aunt's.  Your  aunt " 

"Oh,  I  shall  write  the  truth  to  Auntie,"  Susan  said, 
soberly.  "Write  her  from  Honolulu,  probably.  And 
wild  horses  wouldn't  get  it  out  of  her.  But  if  the 
slightest  thing  should  go  wrong " 

"Nothing  will,  dear.  We'll  drift  about  the  world 
awhile,  and  the  first  thing  you  know  you'll  find  your- 
self married  hard  and  tight,  and  being  invited  to  din- 
ners and  lunches  and  things  in  New  York!" 

Susan's  dimples  came  into  view. 

"I  forget  what  a  very  big  person  you  are,"  she 
smiled.  "I  begin  to  think  you  can  do  anything  you 
want  to  do  I" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  357 

She  had  a  reminder  of  his  greatness  even  before 
they  left  the  tea-room,  for  while  they  were  walking 
up  the  wide  passage  toward  the  arcade,  a  young 
woman,  an  older  woman,  and  a  middle-aged  man,  sud- 
denly addressed  the  writer. 

"Oh,  do  forgive  me!"  said  the  young  woman,  "but 
aren't  you  Stephen  Graham  Bocqueraz?  We've  been 
watching  you — I  just  couldn't  help " 

"My  daughter  is  a  great  admirer "  the  man 

began,  but  the  elder  woman  interrupted  him. 

"We're  all  great  admirers  of  your  books,  Mr. 
Bocqueraz,"  said  she,  "but  it  was  Helen,  my  daughter 
here! — who  was  sure  she  recognized  you.  We  went 
to  your  lecture  at  our  club,  in  Los  Angeles " 

Stephen  shook  hands,  smiled  and  was  very  gracious, 
and  Susan,  shyly  smiling,  too,  felt  her  heart  swell  with 
pride.  When  they  went  on  together  the  little  episode 
had  subtly  changed  her  attitude  toward  him;  Susan 
was  back  for  the  moment  in  her  old  mood,  wondering 
gratefully  what  the  great  man  saw  in  her  to  attract 
him! 

A  familiar  chord  was  touched  when  an  hour  later, 
upon  getting  out  of  a  carriage  at  her  aunt's  door,  she 
found  the  right  of  way  disputed  by  a  garbage  cart,  and 
Mary  Lou,  clad  in  a  wrapper,  holding  the  driver  in 
spirited  conversation  through  a  crack  in  the  door. 
Susan  promptly  settled  a  small  bill,  kissed  Mary  Lou, 
and  went  upstairs  in  harmonious  and  happy  conver- 
sation. 

"I  was  just  taking  a  bath!"  said  Mary  Lou,  in- 
dignantly. Mary  Lou  never  took  baths  easily,  or  as 
a  matter  of  course.  She  always  made  an  event  of 
them,  choosing  an  inconvenient  hour,  assembling  soap, 
clothing  and  towels  with  maddening  deliberation,  run- 
ning about  in  slippered  feet  for  a  full  hour  before  she 
locked  herself  into,  and  everybody  else  out  of,  the 
bathroom.  An  hour  later  she  would  emerge  from 
the  hot  and  steam-clouded  apartment,  to  spend  an- 
other hour  in  her  room  in  leisurely  dressing.  She 


358  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

was  at  this  latter  stage  now,  and  regaled  Susan  with 
all  the  family  news,  as  she  ran  her  hand  into  stocking 
after  stocking  in  search  of  a  whole  heel,  and  forced 
her  silver  cuff-links  into  the  starched  cuffs  of  her 
shirtwaist. 

Ferd  Eastman's  wife  had  succumbed,  some  weeks 
before,  to  a  second  paralytic  stroke,  and  Mary  Lou 
wept  unaffectedly  at  the  thought  of  poor  Ferd's  grief. 
She  said  she  couldn't  help  hoping  that  some  sweet 
and  lovely  girl, — "Ferd  knows  so  many!"  said  Lou, 
sighing, — would  fill  the  empty  place.  Susan,  with  an 
unfavorable  recollection  of  Ferd's  fussy,  important 
manner  and  red  face,  said  nothing.  Georgie,  Mary 
Lou  reported,  was  a  very  sick  woman,  in  Ma's  and 
Mary  Lou's  opinion.  Ma  had  asked  the  young  O'Con- 
nors to  her  home  for  Christmas  dinner;  "perhaps  they 
expected  us  to  ask  the  old  lady,"  said  Mary  Lou,  re- 
sentfully, "anyway,  they  aren't  coming!"  Georgie's 
baby,  it  appeared,  was  an  angel,  but  Joe  disciplined 
the  poor  little  thing  until  it  would  make  anyone's 
heart  sick. 

Of  Alfie  the  report  was  equally  discouraging: 
"Alfie's  wife  is  perfectly  awful,"  his  sister  said,  "and 
their  friends,  Sue, — barbers  and  butchers!  However, 
Ma's  asked  'em  here  for  Christmas  dinner,  and  then 
you'll  see  them !"  Virginia  was  still  at  the  institution, 
but  of  late  some  hope  of  eventual  restoration  of  her 
sight  had  been  given  her.  "It  would  break  your  heart 
to  see  her  in  that  place,  it  seems  like  a  poorhouse !" 
said  Mary  Lou,  with  trembling  lips,  "but  Jinny's  an 
angel.  She  gets  the  children  about  her,  and  tells 
them  stories;  they  say  she's  wonderful  with  them!" 

There  was  really  good  news  of  the  Lord  sisters, 
Susan  was  rejoiced  to  hear.  They  had  finally  paid 
for  their  lot  in  Piedmont  Hills,  and  a  new  trolley- 
car  line,  passing  within  one  block  of  it,  had  trebled  its 
value.  This  was  Lydia's  chance  to  sell,  in  Mary  Lou's 
opinion,  but  Lydia  intended  instead  to  mortgage  the 
now  valuable  property,  and  build  a  little  two-family 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  359 

house  upon  it  with  the  money  thus  raised.  She  had 
passed  the  school-examinations,  and  had  applied  for  a 
Berkeley  school.  "But  better  than  all,"  Mary  Lou 
announced,  "that  great  German  muscle  doctor  has 
been  twice  to  see  Mary, — isn't  that  amazing?  And 
not  a  cent  charged " 

"Oh,  God  bless  him!"  said  Susan,  her  eyes  flashing 
through  sudden  mist.  "And  will  she  be  cured?" 

"Not  ever  to  really  be  like  other  people,  Sue.  But 
he  told  her,  last  time,  that  by  the  time  that  Piedmont 
garden  was  ready  for  her,  she'd  be  ready  to  go  out 
and  sit  in  it  every  day!  Lydia  fainted  away  when  he 
said  it, — yes,  indeed  she  did!" 

"Well,  that's  the  best  news  I've  heard  for  many 
a  day  I"  Susan  rejoiced.  She  could  not  have  explained 
why,  but  some  queer  little  reasoning  quality  in  her 
brain  made  her  own  happiness  seem  the  surer  when 
she  heard  of  the  happiness  of  other  people. 

The  old  odors  in  the  halls,  the  old  curtains  and 
chairs  and  dishes,  the  old,  old  conversation;  Mrs. 
Parker  reading  a  clean,  neatly  lined,  temperate  little 
letter  from  Loretta,  signed  "Sister  Mary  Gregory"; 
Major  Watts  anxious  to  explain  to  Susan  just  the 
method  of  building  an  army  bridge  that  he  had  so 
successfully  introduced  during  the  Civil  War, — "S'ee, 
'Who  is  this  boy,Cutter?'  'Why,  sir,  I  don't  know,' 
says  Captain  Cutter,  'but  he  says  his  name  is  Watts!' 
'Watts?'  says  the  General,  'Well,'  s'ee,  'If  I  had  a 
few  more  of  your  kind,  Watts,  we'd  get  the  Yanks 
on  the  run,  and  we'd  keep  'em  on  the  run.'  ' 

Lydia  Lord  came  down  to  get  Mary's  dinner,  and 
again  Susan  helped  the  watery  vegetable  into  a  pyra- 
mid of  saucers,  and  passed  the  green  glass  dish  of 
pickles,  and  the  pink  china  sugar-bowl.  But  she  was 
happy  to-night,  and  it  seemed  good  to  be  home,  where 
she  could  be  her  natural  self,  and  put  her  elbows  on 
the  table,  and  be  listened  to  and  laughed  at,  instead 
of  playing  a  role. 

"Gosh,  we  need  you  in  this   family,   Susie!"   said 


360  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

William  Oliver,  won  from  fatigue  and  depression  to 
a  sudden  appreciation  of  her  gaiety. 

"Do  you,  Willie  darling?" 

"Don't  you  call  me  Willie!"  he  looked  up  to  say 
scowlingly. 

"Well,  don't  you  call  me  Susie,  then!"  retorted 
Susan.  Mrs.  Lancaster  patted  her  hand,  and  said 
affectionately,  "Don't  it  seem  good  to  have  the  children 
scolding  away  at  each  other  again!" 

Susan  and  William  had  one  of  their  long  talks,  after 
dinner,  while  they  cracked  and  ate  pine-nuts,  and  while 
Mary  Lou,  at  the  other  end  of  the  dining-room  table, 
painstakingly  wrote  a  letter  to  a  friend  of  her  girl- 
hood. Billy  was  frankly  afraid  that  his  men  were 
reaching  the  point  when  a  strike  would  be  the  natural 
step,  and  as  president  of  their  new-formed  union,  and 
spokesman  for  them  whenever  the  powers  had  to  be 
approached,  he  was  anxious  to  delay  extreme  measures 
as  long  as  he  could.  Susan  was  inclined  to  regard 
the  troubles  of  the  workingman  as  very  largely  of  his 
own  making.  "You'll  simply  lose  your  job,"  said 
Susan,  "and  that'll  be  the  end  of  it.  If  you  made 
friends  with  the  Carpenters,  on  the  other  hand,  you'd 
be  fixed  for  life.  And  the  Carpenters  are  perfectly 
lovely  people.  Mrs.  Carpenter  is  on  the  hospital 
board,  and  a  great  friend  of  Ella's.  And  she  says  that 
it's  ridiculous  to  think  of  paying  those  men  better  wages 
when  their  homes  are  so  dirty  and  shiftless,  and  they 
spend  their  money  as  they  do !  You  know  very  well 
there  will  always  be  rich  people  and  poor  people,  and 
that  if  all  the  money  in  the  world  was  divided  on 
Monday  morning " 

"Don't  get  that  old  chestnut  off!"  William  en- 
treated. 

"Well,  I  don't  care!"  Susan  said,  a  little  more 
warmly  for  the  interruption.  •  "Why  don't  they  keep 
their  houses  clean,  and  bring  their  kids  up  decently, 
instead  of  giving  them  dancing  lessons  and  white 
stockings !" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  361 

"Because  they've  had  no  decent  training  themselves, 
Sue " 

"Oh,  decent  training!     What  about  the  schools?" 

"Schools  don't  teach  anything!  But  if  they  had  fair 
play,  and  decent  hours,  and  time  to  go  home  and  play 
with  the  kids,  and  do  a  little  gardening,  they'd  learn 
fast  enough!" 

"The  poor  you  have  always  with  you,"  said  Mary 
Lou,  reverently.  Susan  laughed  outright,  and  went 
around  the  table  to  kiss  her  cousin. 

"You're  an  old  darling,  Mary  Lou!"  said  she. 
Mary  Lou  accepted  the  tribute  as  just. 

"No,  but  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  forget  the  im- 
mense good  that  rich  people  do,  Billy,"  she  said  mildly. 
"Mrs.  Holly's  daughters  gave  a  Christmas-tree  party 
for  eighty  children  yesterday,  and  the  Saturday  Morn- 
ing Club  will  have  a  tree  for  two  hundred  on  the 
twenty-eighth!" 

"Holly  made  his  money  by  running  about  a  hun- 
dred little  druggists  out  of  the  business,"  said  Billy, 
darkly. 

"Bought  and  paid  for  their  businesses,  you  mean," 
Susan  amended  sharply. 

"Yes,  paid  about  two  years'  profits,"  Billy  agreed, 
"and  would  have  run  them  out  of  business  if  they 
hadn't  sold.  If  you  call  that  honest!" 

"It's  legally  honest,"  Susan  said  lazily,  shuffling  a 
pack  for  solitaire.  "It's  no  worse  than  a  thousand 
other  things  that  people  do !" 

"No,  I  agree  with  you  there !"  Billy  said  heartily, 
and  he  smiled  as  if  he  had  had  the  best  of  the  argu- 
ment. 

Susan  followed  her  game  for  awhile  in  silence.  Her 
thoughts  were  glad  to  escape  to  more  absorbing  topics, 
she  reviewed  the  happy  afternoon,  and  thrilled  to  a 
hundred  little  memories.  The  quiet,  stupid  evening 
carried  her  back,  in  spirit,  to  the  Susan  of  a  few 
years  ago,  the  shabby  little  ill-dressed  clerk  of  Hunter, 
Baxter  &  Hunter,  who  had  been  such  a  limited  and 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

suppressed  little  person.  The  Susan  of  to-day  was  an 
erect,  well-corseted,  well-manicured  woman  of  the 
world;  a  person  of  noticeable  nicety  of  speech,  ac- 
customed to  move  in  the  very  highest  society.  No, 
she  could  never  come  back  to  this,  to  the  old  shift- 
less, penniless  ways.  Any  alternative  rather! 

"And,  besides,  I  haven't  really  done  anything  yet," 
Susan  said  to  herself,  uneasily,  when  she  was  brushing 
her  hair  that  night,  and  Mary  Lou  was  congratulating 
her  upon  her  improved  appearance  and  manner. 

On  Saturday  she  introduced  her  delighted  aunt  and 
cousin  to  Mr.  Bocqueraz,  who  came  to  take  her  for  a 
little  stroll. 

"I've  always  thought  you  were  quite  an  unusual 
girl,  Sue,"  said  her  aunt  later  in  the  afternoon,  "and 
I  do  think  it's  a  real  compliment  for  a  man  like  that 
to  talk  to  a  girl  like  you !  I  shouldn't  know  what  to 
say  to  him,  myself,  and  I  was  real  proud  of  the  way 
you  spoke  up;  so  easy  and  yet  so  ladylike!" 

Susan  gave  her  aunt  only  an  ecstatic  kiss  for  answer. 
Bread  was  needed  for  dinner,  and  she  flashed  out  to 
the  bakery  for  it,  and  came  flying  back,  the  bread, 
wrapped  in  paper  and  tied  with  pink  string,  under  her 
arm.  She  proposed  a  stroll  along  Filmore  Street  to 
Mary  Lou,  in  the  evening,  and  they  wrapped  up  for 
their  walk  under  the  clear  stars.  There  was  a  holi- 
day tang  to  the  very  air;  even  the  sound  of  a  pre- 
mature horn,  now  and  then;  the  shops  were  full  of 
shoppers. 

Mary  Lou  had  some  cards  to  buy,  at  five  cents 
apiece,  or  two  for  five  cents,  and  they  joined  the  gently 
pushing  groups  in  the  little  stationery  stores.  In- 
significant little  shoppers  were  busily  making  selections 
from  the  open  trays  of  cards;  school-teachers,  stenog- 
raphers, bookkeepers  and  clerks  kept  up  a  constant 
little  murmur  among  themselves. 

"How  much  are  these?  Thank  you!"  "She  says 
these  are  five,  Lizzie;  do  you  like  them  better  than 
the  little  holly  books?"  "I'll  take  these  two,  please, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  363 

and  will  you  give  me  two  envelopes? — Wait  just  a 
moment,  I  didn't  see  these!"  "This  one  was  in  the 
ten-cent  box,  but  it's  marked  five,  and  that  lady  says 
that  there  were  some  just  like  it  for  five.  If  it's 
five,  I  want  it!"  "Aren't  these  cunnin',  Lou?"  "Yes, 
I  noticed  those,  did  you  see  these,  darling?"  "I  want 
this  one — I  want  these,  please, — will  you  give  me  this 
one?" 

"Are  you  going  to  be  open  at  all  to-morrow?"  Mary 
Lou  asked,  unwilling  to  be  hurried  into  a  rash  choice. 
"Isn't  this  little  one  with  a  baby's  face  sweet?"  said 
a  tall,  gaunt  woman,  gently,  to  Susan. 

"Darling!"  said  Susan. 

"But  I  want  it  for  an  unmarried  lady,  who  isn't  very 
fond  of  children,"  said  the  woman  delicately.  "So 
perhaps  I  had  better  take  these  two  funny  little  pussies 
in  a  hat!" 

They  went  out  into  the  cold  street  again,  and  into 
a  toy-shop  where  a  lamb  was  to  be  selected  for 
Georgie's  baby.  And  here  was  a  roughly  dressed 
young  man  holding  up  a  three-year-old  boy  to  see  the 
elephants  and  horses.  Little  Three,  a  noisy  little  fel- 
low, with  cold  red  little  hands,  and  a  worn,  soiled 
plush  coat,  selected  a  particularly  charming  shaggy 
horse,  and  shouted  with  joy  as  his  father  gave  it  to 
him. 

"Do  you  like  that,  son?  Well,  I  guess  you'll  have 
to  have  it;  there's  nothing  too  good  for  you!"  said  the 
father,  and  he  signaled  a  saleswoman.  The  girl  looked 
blankly  at  the  change  in  her  hand. 

"That's  two  dollars,  sir,"  she  said,  pleasantly,  dis- 
playing the  tag. 

"What?"  the  man  stammered,  turning  red.  "Why 

— why,  sure — that's  right!  But  I  thought "  he 

appealed  to  Susan.  "Don't  that  look  like  twenty 
cents?"  he  asked. 

Mary  Lou  tugged  discreetly  at  Susan's  arm,  but 
Susan  would  not  desert  the  baby  in  the  plush  coat. 

"It  is!"  she  agreed  warmly. 


364  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Oh,  no,  ma'am!  These  are  the  best  German 
toys,"  said  the  salesman  firmly. 

"Well,  then,  I  guess "  the  man  tried  gently 

to  disengage  the  horse  from  the  jealous  grip  of  its 
owner,  "I  guess  we'd  better  leave  this  horse  here  for 
some  other  little  feller,  Georgie,"  said  he,  "and  we'll 
go  see  Santa  Claus." 

"I  thess  want  my  horse  that  Dad  gave  me!"  said 
Georgie,  happily. 

"Shall  I  ask  Santa  Claus  to  send  it?"  asked  the 
saleswoman,  tactfully. 

"No-o-o !"  said  Georgie,  uneasily.  "Doncher  letter 
have  it,  Dad!" 

"Give  the  lady  the  horse,  old  man,"  said  the  father, 
"and  we'll  go  find  something  pretty  for  Mamma  and 
the  baby!"  The  little  fellow's  lips  quivered,  but 
even  at  three  some  of  the  lessons  of  poverty  had  been 
learned.  He  surrendered  the  horse  obediently,  but 
Susan  saw  the  little  rough  head  go  down  tight  against 
the  man's  collar,  and  saw  the  clutch  of  the  grimy 
little  hand. 

Two  minutes  later  she  ran  after  them,  and  found 
them  seated  upon  the  lowest  step  of  an  out-of-the-way 
stairway;  the  haggard,  worried  young  father  vainly  at- 
tempting to  console  the  sobbing  mite  upon  his  knee. 

"Here,  darling,"  said  Susan.  And  what  no  words 
could  do,  the  touch  of  the  rough-coated  pony  did  for 
her;  up  came  the  little  face,  radiant  through  tears; 
Georgie  clasped  his  horse  again. 

"No,  ma'am,  you  mustn't — I  thank  you  very  kindly, 

ma'am,  but '  was  all  that  Susan  heard  before  she 

ran  away. 

She  would  do  things  like  that  every  day  of  her 
life,  she  thought,  lying  awake  in  the  darkness  that 
night.  Wasn't  it  better  to  do  that  sort  of  thing  with 
money  than  to  be  a  Mary  Lou,  say,  without?  She 
was  going  to  take  a  reckless  and  unwise  step  now. 
Admitted.  But  it  would  be  the  only  one.  And  after 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  365 

busy  and  blameless  years  everyone  must  come  to  see 
that  it  had  been  for  the  best. 

Every  detail  was  arranged  now.  She  and  Stephen 
had  visited  the  big  liner  that  afternoon;  Susan  had 
had  her  first  intoxicating  glimpse  of  the  joy  of  sea- 
travel,  had  peeped  into  the  lovely  little  cabin  that  was 
to  be  her  own,  had  been  respectfully  treated  by  the 
steward  as  the  coming  occupant  of  that  cabin.  She 
had  seen  her  new  plaid  folded  on  a  couch,  her  new 
trunk  in  place,  a  great  jar  of  lovely  freesia  lilies 
already  perfuming  the  fresh  orderliness  of  the  place. 

Nothing  to  do  now  but  to  go  down  to  the  boat  in 
the  morning.  Stephen  had  both  tickets  in  his  pocket- 
book.  A  careful  scrutiny  of  the  first-cabin  list  had 
assured  Susan  that  no  acquaintances  of  hers  were  sail- 
ing. If,  in  the  leave-taking  crowd,  she  met  someone 
that  she  knew,  what  more  natural  than  that  Miss 
Brown  had  been  delegated  by  the  Saunders  family  to 
say  good-bye  to  their  charming  cousin?  Friends  had 
promised  to  see  Stephen  off,  but,  if  Ella  appeared  at 
all,  it  would  be  but  for  a  moment,  and  Susan  could 
easily  avoid  her.  She  was  not  afraid  of  any  mishap. 

But  three  days  of  the  pure,  simple  old  atmosphere 
had  somewhat  affected  Susan,  in  spite  of  herself.  She 
could  much  more  easily  have  gone  away  with  Stephen 
Bocqueraz  without  this  interval.  Life  in  the  Saunders 
home  stimulated  whatever  she  had  of  recklessness 
and  independence,  frivolity  and  irreverence  of  law. 
She  would  be  admired  for  this  step  by  the  people 
she  had  left;  she  could  not  think  without  a  heartache 
of  her  aunt's  shame  and  distress. 

However  there  seemed  nothing  to  do  now  but  to 
go  to  sleep.  Susan's  last  thought  was  that  she  had 
not  taken  the  step  yet, — in  so  much,  at  least,  she  was 
different  from  the  girls  who  moved  upon  blind  and 
passionate  impulses.  She  could  withdraw  even  now. 

The  morning  broke  like  many  another  morning; 
sunshine  and  fog  battling  out-of-doors,  laziness  and 
lack  of  system  making  it  generally  characteristic  of  a 


366  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Sunday  morning  within.  Susan  went  to  Church  at 
seven  o'clock,  because  Mary  Lou  seemed  to  expect  it 
of  her,  and  because  it  seemed  a  good  thing  to  do, 
and  was  loitering  over  her  breakfast  at  half-past- 
eight,  when  Mrs.  Lancaster  came  downstairs. 

"Any  plan  for  to-day,  Sue?"  asked  her  aunt.  Susan 
jumped  nervously. 

"Goodness,  Auntie!  I  didn't  see  you  there!  Yes, 
you  know  I  have  to  go  and  see  Mr.  Bocqueraz  off  at 
eleven." 

"Oh,  so  you  do!  But  you  won't  go  back  with  the 
others,  dear?  Tell  them  we  want  you  for  Christ- 
mas!" 

"With  the  others?" 

"Miss  Ella  and  Emily,"  her  aunt  supplied,  mildly 
surprised. 

"Oh!  Oh,  yes!  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  don't 
know,"  Susan  said  in  great  confusion. 

"You'll  probably  see  Lydia  Lord  there,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Lancaster,  presently.  "She's  seeing  Mrs.  Law- 
rence's cousins  off." 

"On  the  Nippon  Maruf"  Susan  asked  nervously. 

"How  you  do  remember  names,  Sue !  Yes,  Lydia's 
going  down." 

"I'd  go  with  you,  Sue,  if  it  wasn't  for  those  turkeys 
to  stuff,"  said  Mary  Lou.  "I  do  love  a  big  ship!" 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  could!"  Susan  said. 

She  went  upstairs  with  a  fast-beating  heart.  Her 
heart  was  throbbing  so  violently,  indeed,  that,  like 
any  near  loud  noise,  it  made  thought  very  difficult. 
Mary  Lou  came  in  upon  her  packing  her  suitcase. 

"I  suppose  they  may  want  you  to  go  right  back," 
said  Mary  Lou  regretfully,  in  reference  to  the  Saun- 
ders,  "but  why  don't  you  leave  that  here  in  case  they 
don't?" 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  take  it,"  said  Susan. 

She  kissed  her  cousin  good-bye,  gave  her  aunt  a 
particularly  fervent  hug,  and  went  out  into  the  doubt- 
ful morning.  The  fog-horn  was  booming  on  the  bay, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  367 

and  when  Susan  joined  the  little  stream  of  persons 
filing  toward  the  dock  of  the  great  Nippon  Maru, 
fog  was  already  shutting  out  all  the  world,  and  the 
eaves  of  the  pier  dripped  with  mist.  Between  the 
slow-moving  motor-cars  and  trucks  on  the  dock,  well- 
dressed  men  and  women  were  picking  their  way  through 
the  mud. 

Susan  went  unchallenged  up  the  gang-plank,  with 
girls  in  big  coats,  carrying  candy-boxes  and  violets, 
men  with  cameras,  elderly  persons  who  watched  their 
steps  nervously.  The  big  ship  was  filled  with  chat- 
tering groups,  young  people  raced  through  cabins  and 
passageways,  eager  to  investigate. 

Stevedores  were  slinging  trunks  and  boxes  on  board; 
everywhere  were  stir  and  shouting  and  movement. 
Children  shrieked  and  romped  in  the  fitful  sunlight; 
'there  were  tears  and  farewells,  on  all  sides;  postal- 
writers  were  already  busy  about  the  tables  in  the  writ- 
ing-room, stewards  were  captured  on  their  swift  com- 
ings and  goings,  and  interrogated  and  importuned. 
Fog  lay  heavy  and  silent  over  San  Francisco;  and  the 
horn  still  boomed  down  the  bay. 

Susan,  standing  at  the  rail  looking  gravely  on  at 
the  vivid  and  exciting  picture,  felt  an  uneasy  and  chill- 
ing little  thought  clutch  at  her  heart.  She  had  always 
said  that  she  could  withdraw,  at  this  particular  minute 
she  could  withdraw.  But  in  a  few  moments  more 
the  dock  would  be  moving  steadily  away  from  her; 
the  clock  in  the  ferry-tower,  with  gulls  wheeling  about 
it,  the  ferry-boats  churning  long  wakes  in  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  bay,  the  stir  of  little  craft  about  the 
piers,  the  screaming  of  a  hundred  whistles,  in  a  hun- 
dred keys,  would  all  be  gone.  Alcatraz  would  be 
passed,  Black  Point  and  the  Golden  Gate;  they  would 
be  out  beyond  the  rolling  head-waters  of  the  harbor. 
No  withdrawing  then. 

Her  attention  was  attracted  by  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  guards  at  the  gang-plank,  no  more  visitors 
would  be  allowed  on  board.  Susan  smiled  at  the 


368  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

helpless  disgust  of  some  late-comers,  who  must  send 
their  candy  and  books  up  by  the  steward.  Twenty- 
five  minutes  of  twelve,  said  the  ferry  clock. 

"Are  you  going  as  far  as  Japan,  my  dear?"  asked 
a  gentle  little  lady  at  Susan's  shoulder. 

"Yes,  we're  going  even  further!"  said  friendly 
Susan. 

"I'm  going  all  alone,"  said  the  little  lady,  "and  old 
as  I  am,  I  so  dread  it !  I  tell  Captain  Wolseley 

"I'm  making  my  first  trip,  too,"  said  Susan,  "so 
we'll  stand  by  each  other!" 

A  touch  on  her  arm  made  her  turn  suddenly  about; 
her  heart  thundering.  But  it  was  only  Lydia  Lord. 

"Isn't  this  thrilling,  Sue?"  asked  Lydia,  excited  and 
nervous.  "What  wouldn't  you  give  to  be  going?  Did 
you  go  down  and  see  the  cabins;  aren't  they  dear? 
Have  you  found  the  Saunders  party?" 

"Are  the  Saunders  here?"  asked  Susan. 

"Miss  Ella  was,  I  know.  But  she's  probably  gone 
now.  I  didn't  see  the  younger  sister.  I  must  get 
back  to  the  Jeromes,"  said  Lydia;  "they  began  to 
take  pictures,  and  I'd  thought  I  run  away  for  a  little 
peep  at  everything,  all  to  myself!  They  say  that  we 
shore  people  will  have  to  leave  the  ship  at  quarter 
of  twelve." 

She  fluttered  away,  and  a  second  later  Susan  found 
her  hand  covered  by  the  big  glove  of  Stephen 
Bocqueraz. 

"Here  you  are,  Susan,"  he  said,  with  business-like 
satisfaction.  "I  was  kept  by  Ella  and  some  others, 
but  they've  gone  now.  Everything  seems  to  be  quite 
all  right." 

Susan  turned  a  rather  white  and  strained  face  to- 
ward him,  but  even  now  his  bracing  bigness  and  cool- 
ness were  acting  upon  her  as  a  tonic. 

"We're  at  the  Captain's  table,"  he  told  her,  "which 
you'll  appreciate  if  you're  not  ill.  If  you  are  ill, 
you've  got  a  splendid  stewardess, — Mrs.  O'Connor. 
She  happens  to  be  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine;  she 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  369 

used  to  be  on  a  Cunarder,  and  she's  very  much  inter- 
ested in  my  niece,  and  will  look  out  for  you  very  well." 
He  looked  down  upon  the  crowded  piers.  "Wonder- 
ful sight,  isn't  it?"  he  asked.  Susan  leaned  beside  him 
at  the  rail,  her  color  was  coming  back,  but  she  saw 
nothing  and  heard  nothing  of  what  went  on  about  her. 

"What's  he  doing  that  for?"  she  asked  suddenly. 
For  a  blue-clad  coolie  was  working  his  way  through 
the  crowded  docks,  banging  violently  on  a  gong.  The 
sound  disturbed  Susan's  overstrained  nerves. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Stephen.  "Lunch  perhaps. 
Would  you  like  to  have  a  look  downstairs  before  we 
go  to  lunch?" 

"That's  a  warning  for  visitors  to  go  ashore,"  volun- 
teered a  bright-faced  girl  near  them,  who  was  leaning 
on  the  rail,  staring  down  at  the  pier.  "But  they'll 
give  a  second  warning,"  she  added,  "for  we're  going 
to  be  a  few  minutes  late  getting  away.  Aren't  you 
glad  you  don't  have  to  go?"  she  asked  Susan  gaily. 

"Rather!"  said  Susan  huskily. 

Visitors  were  beginning  now  to  go  reluctantly  down 
the  gang-plank,  and  mass  themselves  on  the  deck, 
staring  up  at  the  big  liner,  their  faces  showing  the 
strained  bright  smile  that  becomes  so  fixed  during 
the  long  slow  process  of  casting  off.  Handkerchiefs 
began  to  wave,  and  to  wipe  wet  eyes;  empty  last 
promises  were  exchanged  between  decks  and  pier.  A 
woman  near  Susan  began  to  cry, — a  homely  little 
woman,  but  the  big  handsome  man  who  kissed  her  was 
crying,  too. 

Suddenly  the  city  whistles,  that  blow  even  on  Sunday 
in  San  Francisco,  shrilled  twelve.  Susan  thought  of  the 
old  lunch-room  at  Hunter,  Baxter  &  Hunter's,  of 
Thorny  and  the  stewed  tomatoes,  and  felt  the  bitter 
tears  rise  in  her  throat. 

Various  passengers  now  began  to  turn  their  interest 
to  the  life  of  the  ship.  There  was  talk  of  luncheon, 
of  steamer  chairs,  of  asking  the  stewardess  for  jars 
to  hold  flowers.  Susan  had  drawn  back  from  the 


370  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

rail,  no  one  on  the  ship  knew  her,  but  somebody  on 
the  pier  might. 

"Now  let  us  go  find  Mrs.  O'Connor,"  Stephen  said, 
in  a  matter-of-fact  tone.  "Then  you  can  take  off 
your  hat  and  freshen  up  a  bit,  and  we  can  look  over 
the  ship."  He  led  her  cleverly  through  the  now 
wildly  churning  crowds,  into  the  comparative  quiet  of 
the  saloon. 

Here  they  found  Mrs.  O'Connor,  surrounded  by  an 
anxious  group  of  travelers.  Stephen  put  Susan  into 
her  charge,  and  the  two  women  studied  each  other 
with  interest. 

Susan  saw  a  big-boned,  gray-haired,  capable-looking 
Irishwoman,  in  a  dress  of  dark-blue  duck,  with  a  v> 
collar  and  white  cuffs,  heard  a  warming,  big  voice,  and 
caught  a  ready  and  infectious  smile.  In  all  the  sur- 
rounding confusion  Mrs.  O'Connor  was  calm  and 
alert;  so  normal  in  manner  and  speech  indeed  that 
merely  watching  her  had  the  effect  of  suddenly  cool- 
ing Susan's  blood,  of  reducing  her  whirling  thoughts 
to  something  like  their  old,  sane  basis.  Travel  was 
nothing  to  Mrs.  O'Connor;  farewells  were  the  chief 
of  her  diet;  and  her  manner  with  Stephen  Bocqueraz 
was  crisp  and  quiet.  She  fixed  upon  him  shrewd, 
wise  eyes  that  had  seen  some  curious  things  in  their 
day,  but  she  gave  Susan  a  motherly  smile. 

"This  is  my  niece,  Mrs.  O'Connor,"  said  Stephen, 
introducing  Susan.  "She's  never  made  the  trip  be- 
fore, and  I  want  you  to  help  me  turn  her  over  to 
her  Daddy  in  Manila,  in  first-class  shape." 

"I  will  that,"  agreed  the  stewardess,  heartily. 

"Well,  then  I'll  have  a  look  at  my  own  diggings, 
and  Mrs.  O'Connor  will  take  you  off  to  yours.  I'll 
be  waiting  for  you  in  the  library,  Sue,"  Stephen  said, 
walking  off,  and  Susan  followed  Mrs.  O'Connor  to 
her  own  cabin. 

"The  very  best  on  the  ship,  as  you  might  know 
Mr.  Bocqueraz  would  get  for  anyone  belonging  to 
him,"  said  the  stewardess,  shaking  pillows  and 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  371 

straightening  curtains  with  great  satisfaction,  when 
they  reached  the  luxurious  little  suite.  "He's  your 
father's  brother,  he  tells  me.  Was  that  it?" 

She  was  only  making  talk,  with  the  kindliest  mo- 
tives, for  a  nervous  passenger,  but  the  blood  rushed 
into  Susan's  face.  Somehow  it  cut  her  to  the  heart 
to  have  to  remember  her  father  just  at  this  instant; 
to  make  him,  however  distantly,  a  party  to  this  troubled 
affair. 

"And  you've  lost  your  dear  mother,"  Mrs.  O'Con- 
nor said,  misunderstanding  the  girl's  evident  distress. 
"Well,  my  dear,  the  trip  will  do  you  a  world  of  good, 
and  you're  blessed  in  this — you've  a  good  father  left, 
and  an  uncle  that  would  lay  down  and  die  for  you. 
I  leave  my  own  two  girls,  every  time  I  go,"  she  pur- 
sued, comfortably.  "Angela's  married, — she  has  a 
baby,  poor  child,  and  she's  not  very  strong, — and 
Regina  is  still  in  boarding-school,  in  San  Rafael.  It's 
hard  to  leave  them " 

Simple,  kindly  talk,  such  as  Susan  had  heard  from 
her  babyhood.  And  the  homely  honest  face  was  not 
strange,  nor  the  blue,  faded  eyes,  with  their  heartening 
assurance  of  good-fellowship. 

But  suddenly  it  seemed  to  Susan  that,  with  a  hideous 
roaring  and  rocking,  the  world  was  crashing  to  pieces 
about  her.  Her  soul  sickened  and  shrank  within  her. 
She  knew  nothing  of  this  good  woman,  who  was 
straightening  blankets  and  talking — talking — talking, 
three  feet  from  her,  but  she  felt  she  could  not  bear 
— she  could  not  bear  this  kindly  trust  and  sympathy 
— she  could  not  bear  the  fear  that  some  day  she  would 
be  known  to  this  woman  for  what  she  was ! 

A  gulf  yawned  before  her.  She  had  not  foreseen 
this.  She  had  known  that  there  were  women  in  the 
world,  plenty  of  them,  Stephen  said,  who  would  un- 
derstand what  she  was  doing  and  like  her  in  spite  of 
it,  even  admire  her. 

But  what  these  blue  eyes  would  look  when  they 
knew  it,  she  very  well  knew.  Whatever  glories  and 


372  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

heights  awaited  Susan  Brown  in  the  days  to  come,  she 
could  never  talk  as  an  equal  with  Ann  O'Connor  or 
her  like  again,  never  exchange  homely,  happy  details 
of  babies  and  boarding-school  and  mothers  and  fathers 
again ! 

Plenty  of  women  in  the  world  who  would  under- 
stand and  excuse  her, — but  Susan  had  a  mad  desire  to 
get  among  these  sheltering  women  somehow,  never  to 
come  in  contact  with  these  stupid,  narrow-visioned 
others ! 

"Leo — that's  my  son-in-law,  is  an  angel  to  her," 
Mrs.  O'Connor  was  saying,  "and  it's  not  everyone 
would  be,  as  you  know,  for  poor  Angela  was  sick  all 
the  time  before  Raymond  came,  and  she's  hardly  able 
to  stir,  even  yet.  But  Leo  gets  his  own  break- 
fasts  " 

Susan  was  at  the  washstand  busy  with  brush  and 
comb.  She  paused. 

Life  stretched  before  her  vision  a  darkened  and 
wearisome  place.  She  had  a  sudden  picture  of  Mrs. 
O'Connor's  daughter, — of  Georgie — of  all  helpless 
women  upon  whom  physical  weakness  lays  its  heavy 
load.  Pale,  dispirited  women,  hanging  over  the  little 
cradles,  starting  up  at  little  cries  in  the  night,  com- 
forted by  the  boyish,  sympathetic  husbands,  and  mur- 
muring tired  thanks  and  appreciations 

She,  Susan,  would  be  old  some  day,  might  be  sick 
and  weak  any  day;  there  might  be  a  suffering  child. 
What  then?  What  consolation  for  a  woman  who  set 
her  feet  deliberately  in  the  path  of  wrong?  Not 
even  a  right  to  the  consolation  these  others  had,  to 
the  strong  arm  and  the  heartening  voice  at  the  day's 
end.  And  the  child — what  could  she  teach  a  child 
of  its  mother? 

"But  I  might  not  have  one,"  said  Susan  to  herself. 
And  instantly  tears  of  self-pity  bowed  her  head  over 
the  little  towel-rack,  and  turned  her  heart  to  water. 
"I  love  children  so — and  I  couldn't  have  children!" 
came  the  agonized  thought,  and  she  wept  bitterly, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  373 

pressing  her  eyes  against  the  smooth  folds  of  the 
towel. 

"Come  now,  come  now,"  said  Ann  O'Connor,  sym- 
pathetic but  not  surprised.  "You  mustn't  feel  that 
way.  Dry  your  eyes,  dear,  and  come  up  on  deck. 
We'll  be  casting  off  any  moment  now.  Think  of 
meeting  your  good  father " 

"Oh,  Daddy! "  The  words  were  a  long  wail. 

Then  Susan  straightened  up  resolutely. 

"I  mustn't  do  this,"  she  said  sensibly.  "I  must 
find  Mr.  Bocqueraz." 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  have  just 
the  sight  and  touch  of  Stephen  or  she  would  lose  all 
self-control.  "How  do  I  get  to  the  library?"  she 
asked,  white  lipped  and  breathing  hard. 

Sympathetic  Mrs.  O'Connor  willingly  directed  her, 
and  Susan  went  quickly  and  unseeingly  through  the 
unfamiliar  passageway  and  up  the  curving  staircase. 
Stephen — said  her  thoughts  over  and  over  again — 
just  to  get  to  him, — to  put  herself  in  his  charge,  to 
awaken  from  the  nightmare  of  her  own  fears. 
Stephen  would  understand — would  make  everything 
right.  People  noticed  her,  for  even  in  that  self-ab- 
sorbed crowd,  she  was  a  curious  figure, — a  tall,  breath- 
less girl,  whose  eyes  burned  feverishly  blue  in  her  white 
face.  But  Susan  saw  nobody,  noticed  nothing.  Ob- 
structions she  put  gently  aside;  voices  and  laughter 
she  did  not  hear;  and  when  suddenly  a  hand  was  laid 
upon  her  arm,  she  jumped  in  nervous  fright. 

It  was  Lydia  Lord  who  clutched  her  eagerly  by 
the  wrist,  homely,  excited,  shabbily  dressed  Lydia  who 
clung  to  her,  beaming  with  relief  and  satisfaction. 

"Oh,  Sue, — what  a  piece  of  good  fortune  to  find 
you!"  gasped  the  little  governess.  "Oh,  my  dear, 
I've  twisted  my  ankle  on  one  of  those  awful  deck  stair- 
ways!" she  panted.  "I  wonder  a  dozen  people  a  day 
don't  get  killed  on  them!  And,  Sue,  did  you  know, 
the  second  gong  has  been  rung?  I  didn't  hear  it,  but 
they  say  it  has !  We  haven't  a  second  to  lose — seems 


374  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

so  dreadful — and  everyone  so  polite  and  yet  in  such 
a  hurry — this  way,  dear,  he  says  this  way — My!  but 
that  is  painful!" 

Dashed  in  an  instant  from  absolute  security  to  this 
terrible  danger  of  discovery,  Susan  experienced  some- 
thing like  vertigo.  Her  senses  seemed  actually  to 
fail  her.  She  could  do  only  the  obvious  thing.  Dazed, 
she  gave  Lydia  her  arm,  and  automatically  guided  the 
older  woman  toward  the  upper  deck.  But  that  this 
astounding  enterprise  of  hers  should  be  thwarted  by 
Lydia  Lord!  Not  an  earthquake,  not  a  convulsed 
conspiracy  of  earth  and  sea,  but  this  little  teacher, 
in  her  faded  little  best,  with  her  sprained  ankle! 

That  Lydia  Lord,  smiling  in  awkward  deprecation, 
and  giving  apologetic  glances  to  interested  bystanders 
who  watched  their  limping  progress,  should  consider 
herself  the  central  interest  of  this  terrible  hour!— 
It  was  one  more  utterly  irreconcilable  note  in  this 
time  of  utter  confusion  and  bewilderment.  Terror 
of  discovery,  mingled  in  the  mad  whirl  of  Susan's 
thoughts  with  schemes  of  escape;  and  under  all  ran 
the  agonizing  pressure  for  time — minutes  were  pre- 
cious now — every  second  was  priceless! 

Lydia  Lord  was  the  least  manageable  woman  in  the 
world.  Susan  had  chafed  often  enough  at  her  blunt, 
stupid  obstinacy  to  be  sure  of  that!  If  she  once  sus- 
pected what  was  Susan's  business  on  the  Nippon  Maru 
— less,  if  she  so  much  as  suspected  that  Susan  was 
keeping  something,  anything,  from  her,  she  would  not 
be  daunted  by  a  hundred  captains,  by  a  thousand  on- 
lookers. She  would  have  the  truth,  and  until  she  got 
it,  Susan  would  not  be  allowed  out  of  her  arm's  reach. 
Lydia  would  cheerfully  be  bullied  by  the  ship's  author- 
ities, laughed  at,  insulted,  even  arrested  in  happy 
martyrdom,  if  it  once  entered  into  her  head  that  Mrs. 
Lancaster's  niece,  the  bright-headed  little  charge  of 
the  whole  boarding-house,  was  facing  what  Miss  Lord, 
in  virtuous  ignorance,  was  satisfied  to  term  "worse 
than  death."  Lydia  would  be  loyal  to  Mrs.  Lan- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  375 

caster,  and  true  to  the  simple  rules  of  morality  by 
which  she  had  been  guided  every  moment  of  her  life. 
She  had  sometimes  had  occasion  to  discipline  Susan 
in  Susan's  naughty  and  fascinating  childhood;  she 
would  unsparingly  discipline  Susan  now. 

Mary  Lou  might  have  been  evaded;  the  Saunders 
could  easily  have  been  silenced,  as  ladies  are  easily 
silenced;  but  Lydia  was  neither  as  unsuspecting  as 
Mary  Lou,  nor  was  she  a  lady.  Had  Susan  been  rude 
and  cold  to  fhis  humble  friend  throughout  her  child- 
hood, she  might  have  successfully  defied  and  escaped 
Lydia  now.  But  Susan  had  always  been  gracious  and 
sympathetic  with  Lydia,  interested  in  her  problems, 
polite  and  sweet  and  kind.  She  could  not  change  her 
manner  now;  as  easily  change  her  eyes  or  hair  as  to 
say,  "I'm  sorry  you've  hurt  your  foot,  you'll  have  to 
excuse  me, — I'm  busy"!"  Lydia  would  have  stopped 
short  in  horrified  amazement,  and,  when  Susan  sailed 
on  the  Nippon  Maru,  Lydia  would  have  sailed,  too. 

Guided  by  various  voices,  breathless  and  unseeing, 
they  limped  on.  Past  staring  men  and  women,  through 
white-painted  narrow  doorways,  in  a  general  hush  of 
shocked  doubt,  they  made  their  way. 

"We  aren't  going  to  make  it!"  gasped  Lydia. 
Susan  felt  a  sick  throb  at  her  heart.  What  then? 

"Oh,  yes  we  are!"  she  murmured  as  they  came  out 
on  the  deck  near  the  gang-plank.  Embarrassment 
overwhelmed  her;  everyone  was  watching  them — sup- 
pose Stephen  was  watching — suppose  he  called  her 

Susan's  one  prayer  now  was  that  she  and  Lydia 
might  reach  the  gang-plank,  and  cross  it,  and  be  lost 
from  sight  among  the  crowd  on  the  dock.  If  there 
was  a  hitch  now! 

"The  shore  gong  rang  ten  minutes  ago,  ladies!" 
said  a  petty  officer  at  the  gang-plank  severely. 

"Thank  God  we're  in  time!"  Lydia  answered 
amiably,  with  her  honest,  homely  smile. 

"You've  got  to  hurry;  we're  waiting!"  added  the 
man  less  disapprovingly. 


376  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Susan,  desperate  now,  was  only  praying  for  ob- 
livion. That  Lydia  and  Stephen  might  not  meet — 
that  she  might  be  spared  only  that — that  somehow 
they  might  escape  this  hideous  publicity — this  noise 
and  blare,  was  all  she  asked.  She  did  not  dare  raise 
her  eyes;  her  face  burned. 

"She's  hurt  her  foot!"  said  pitying  voices,  as  the 
two  women  went  slowly  down  the  slanting  bridge  to 
the  dock. 

Down,  down,  down  they  went!  And  every  step 
carried  Susan  nearer  to  the  world  of  her  childhood, 
with  its  rigid  conventions,  its  distrust  of  herself,  its 
timidity  of  officials,  and  in  crowded  places!  The  in- 
fluence of  the  Saunders'  arrogance  and  pride  failed 
her  suddenly;  the  memory  of  Stephen's  bracing  belief 
in  the  power  to  make  anything  possible  forsook  her. 
She  was  only  little  Susan  Brown,  not  rich  and  not 
bold  and  not  independent,  unequal  to  the  pressure  of 
circumstances. 

She  tried,  with  desperate  effort,  to  rally  her  courage. 
Men  were  waiting  even  now  to  take  up  the  gang- 
plank when  she  and  Lydia  left  it;  in  another  second 
it  would  be  too  late. 

"Is  either  of  you  ladies  sailing?"  asked  the  guard 
at  its  foot. 

"No,  indeed!"  said  Lydia,  cheerfully.  Susan's  eye 
met  his  miserably — but  she  could  not  speak. 

They  went  slowly  along  the  pier,  Susan  watching 
Lydia's  steps,  and  watching  nothing  else.  Her  face 
burned,  her  heart  pounded,  her  hands  and  feet  were 
icy  cold.  She  merely  wished  to  get  away  from  this 
scene  without  a  disgraceful  exposition  of  some  sort, 
to  creep  somewhere  into  darkness,  and  to  die.  She 
answered  Lydia's  cheerful  comments  briefly;  with  a 
dry  throat. 

Suddenly  beside  one  of  the  steamer's  great  red  stacks 
there  leaped  a  plume  of  white  steam,  and  the  prolonged 
deep  blast  of  her  whistle  drowned  all  other  sounds. 

'T'here  she  goes!"  said  Lydia  pausing. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  377 

She  turned  to  watch  the  Nippon  Maru  move  against 
the  pier  like  a  moving  wall,  swing  free,  push  slowly 
out  into  the  bay.  Susan  did  not  look. 

"It  makes  me  sick,"  she  said,  when  Lydia,  aston- 
ished, noticed  she  was  not  watching. 

"Why,  I  should  think  it  did!"  Lydia  exclaimed,  for 
Susan's  face  was  ashen,  and  she  was  biting  her  lips 
hard  to  keep  back  the  deadly  rush  of  faintness  that 
threatened  to  engulf  her. 

"I'm  afraid — air — Lyd "  whispered  Susan. 

Lydia  forgot  her  own  injured  ankle. 

"Here,  sit  on  these  boxes,  darling,"  she  said.  "Well, 
you  poor  little  girl  you !  There,  that's  better.  Don't 
worry  about  anyone  watching  you,  just  sit  there  and 
rest  as  long  as  you  feel  like  it !  I  guess  you  need  your 
lunch  1" 


PART  THREE 

Service 


CHAPTER  I 

DECEMBER  was  unusually  cold  and  bleak,  that  year, 
and  after  the  holidays  came  six  long  weeks  during 
which  there  were  but  a  few  glimpses  of  watery  sun- 
light, between  long  intervals  of  fogs  and  rains.  Day 
after  day  broke  dark  and  stormy,  day  after  day  the 
office-going  crowds  jostled  each  other  under  wet  um- 
brellas, or,  shivering  in  wet  shoes  and  damp  outer 
garments,  packed  the  street-cars. 

Mrs.  Lancaster's  home,  like  all  its  type,  had  no  fur- 
nace, and  moisture  and  cold  seemed  to  penetrate  it, 
and  linger  therein.  Wind  howled  past  the  dark  win- 
dows, rain  dripped  from  the  cornice  above  the  front 
door,  the  acrid  odor  of  drying  woolens  and  wet  rub- 
ber coats  permeated  the  halls.  Mrs.  Lancaster  said 
she  never  had  known  of  so  much  sickness  everywhere, 
and  sighed  over  the  long  list  of  unknown  dead  in  the 
newspaper  every  morning. 

"And  I  shouldn't  be  one  bit  surprised  if  you  were 
sickening  for  something,  Susan,"  her  aunt  said,  in  a 
worried  way,  now  and  then.  But  Susan,  stubbornly 
shaking  her  head,  fighting  against  tears,  always  an- 
swered with  ill-concealed  impatience: 

"Oh,  please  don't,  auntie!     I'm  all  right!" 

No  such  welcome  event  as  a  sudden  and  violent 
and  fatal  illness  was  likely  to  come  her  way,  she  used 
bitterly  to  reflect.  She  was  here,  at  home  again,  in 
the  old  atmosphere  of  shabbiness  and  poverty;  nothing 
was  changed,  except  that  now  her  youth  was  gone,  and 
her  heart  broken,  and  her  life  wrecked  beyond  all  re- 
pairing. Of  the  great  world  toward  which  she  had 
sent  so  many  hopeful  and  wistful  and  fascinated  glances, 

381 


382       .  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

a  few  years  ago,  she  now  stood  in  fear.  It  was  a 
cruel  world,  cold  and  big  and  selfish;  it  had  torn  her 
heart  out  of  her,  and  cast  her  aside  like  a  dry  husk. 
She  could  not  keep  too  far  enough  away  from  it  to 
satisfy  herself  in  future,  she  only  prayed  for  obscurity 
and  solitude  for  the  rest  of  her  difficult  life. 

She  had  been  helped  through  the  first  dreadful  days 
that  had  followed  the  sailing  of  the  Nippon  Maru, 
by  a  terrified  instinct  of  self-protection.  Having  failed 
so  signally  in  this  venture,  her  only  possible  course  was 
concealment.  Mary  Lord  did  not  guess — Mrs.  Saund- 
ers  did  not  guess — Auntie  did  not  guess !  Susan  spent 
every  waking  hour,  and  many  of  the  hours  when  she 
was  supposedly  asleep,  in  agonized  search  for  some  un- 
guarded move  by  which  she  might  be  betrayed. 

A  week  went  by,  two  weeks — life  resumed  its  old 
aspect  outwardly.  No  newspaper  had  any  sensational 
revelation  to  make  in  connection  with  the  news  of 
the  Nippon  Mam's  peaceful  arrival  in  Honolulu 
harbor,  and  the  reception  given  there  for  the  eminent 
New  York  novelist.  Nobody  spoke  to  Susan  of  Boc- 
queraz;  her  heart  began  to  resume  its  natural  beat. 
And  with  ebbing  terror  it  was  as  if  the  full  misery 
of  her  heart  was  revealed. 

She  had  severed  her  connections  with  the  Saunders 
family;  she  told  her  aunt  quietly,  and  steeled  herself 
for  the  scene  that  followed,  which  was  more  painful 
even  than  she  had  feared.  Mrs.  Lancaster  felt  in- 
dignantly that  an  injustice  had  been  done  Susan,  was 
not  at  all  sure  that  she  herself  would  not  call  upon 
Miss  Saunders  and  demand  a  full  explanation.  Susan 
combated  this  idea  with  surprising  energy;  she  was 
very  silent  and  unresponsive  in  these  days,  but  at  this 
suggestion  she  became  suddenly  her  old  vigorous  self. 

"I  don't  understand  you  lately,  Sue,"  her  aunt  said 
disapprovingly,  after  this  outburst.  "You  don't  act 
like  yourself  at  all !  Sometimes  you  almost  make  auntie 
think  that  you've  got  something  on  your  mind." 

Something  on  her  mind !     Susan  could  have  given  a 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  383 

mad  laugh  at  the  suggestion.  Madness  seemed  very 
near  sometimes,  between  the  anguished  aching  of  her 
heart,  and  the  chaos  of  shame  and  grief  and  impotent 
rebellion  that  possessed  her  soul.  She  was  sickened 
with  the  constant  violence  of  her  emotions,  whether 
anger  or  shame  shook  her,  or  whether  she  gave  way 
to  desperate  longings  for  the  sound  of  Stephen  Boc- 
queraz's  voice,  and  the  touch  of  his  hand  again,  she 
was  equally  miserable.  Perhaps  the  need  of  him 
brought  the  keenest  pang,  but,  after  all,  love  with  Susan 
was  still  the  unknown  quantity,  she  was  too  closely 
concerned  with  actual  discomforts  to  be  able  to  afford 
the  necessary  hours  and  leisure  for  brooding  over  a 
disappointment  in  love.  That  pain  came  only  at  in- 
tervals,— a  voice,  overheard  in  the  street,  would  make 
her  feel  cold  and  weak  with  sudden  memory,  a  poem 
or  a  bit  of  music  that  recalled  Stephen  Bocqueraz 
would  ring  her  heart  with  sorrow,  or,  worst  of  all, 
some  reminder  of  the  great  city  where  he  made  his 
home,  and  the  lives  that  gifted  and  successful  and 
charming  men  and  women  lived  there,  would  scar 
across  the  dull  wretchedness  of  Susan's  thoughts  with 
a  touch  of  flame.  But  the  steady  misery  of  everyday 
had  nothing  to  do  with  these,  and,  if  less  sharp,  was 
still  terrible  to  bear. 

Desperately,  with  deadly  determination,  she  began 
to  plan  an  escape.  She  told  herself  that  she  would  not 
go  away  until  she  was  sure  that  Stephen  was  not  com- 
ing back  for  her,  sure  that  he  was  not  willing  to  accept 
the  situation  as  she  had  arranged  it.  If  he  rebelled, 
— if  he  came  back  for  her, — if  his  devotion  were  un- 
affected by  what  had  passed,  then  she  must  meet  that 
situation  as  it  presented  itself. 

But  almost  from  the  very  first  she  knew  that  he 
would  not  come  back  and,  as  the  days  went  by,  and 
not  even  a  letter  came,  however  much  her  pride  suf- 
fered, she  could  not  tell  herself  that  she  was  very 
much  surprised.  In  her  most  sanguine  moments  she 
could  dream  that  he  had  had  news  in  Honolulu, — 


384  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

his  wife  was  dead,  he  had  hurried  home,  he  would 
presently  come  back  to  San  Francisco,  and  claim  Susan's 
promise.  But  for  the  most  part  she  did  not  deceive 
herself;  her  friendship  with  Stephen  Bocqueraz  was 
over.  It  had  gone  out  of  her  life  as  suddenly  as  if 
had  come,  and  with  it,  Susan  told  herself,  had  gone 
so  much  more!  Her  hope  of  winning  a  place  for 
herself,  her  claim  on  the  life  she  loved,  her  confidence 
that,  as  she  was  different,  so  would  her  life  be  different 
from  the  other  lives  she  knew.  All,  all  was  gone.  She 
was  as  helpless  and  as  impotent  as  Mary  Lou! 

She  had  her  moods  when  planning  vague  enter- 
prises in  New  York  or  Boston  satisfied  her,  and  other 
moods  when  she  determined  to  change  her  name,  and 
join  a  theatrical  troupe.  From  these  some  slight  acci- 
dent might  dash  her  to  the  bitterest  depths  of  de- 
spondency. She  would  have  a  sudden,  sick  memory 
of  Stephen's  clear  voice,  of  the  touch  of  his  hand, 
she  would  be  back  at  the  Browning  dance  again,  or 
sitting  between  him  and  Billy  at  that  memorable  first 
supper 

"Oh,  my  God,  what  shall  I  do?"  she  would  whisper, 
dizzy  with  pain,  stopping  short  over  her  sewing,  or 
standing  still  in  the  street,  when  the  blinding  rush  of 
recollection  came.  And  many  a  night  she  lay  wakeful 
beside  Mary  Lou,  her  hands  locked  tight  over  her  fast- 
beating  heart,  her  lips  framing  again  the  hopeless, 
desperate  little  prayer:  "Oh,  God,  what  shall  I  do!" 

No  avenue  of  thought  led  to  comfort,  there  was 
no  comfort  anywhere.  Susan  grew  sick  of  her  own 
thoughts.  Chief  among  them  was  the  conviction  of 
failure,  she  had  tried  to  be  good  and  failed.  She  had 
consented  to  be  what  was  not  good,  and  failed  there, 
too. 

Shame  rose  like  a  rising  tide.  She  could  not  stem  it; 
she  could  not  even  recall  the  arguments  that  had  in- 
fluenced her  so  readily  a  few  months  ago,  much  less 
be  consoled  by  them.  Over  and  over  again  the  horri- 
fying fact  sprang  from  her  lulled  reveries:  she  was 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  385 

bad — she  was,  at  heart  at  least,  a  bad  woman — she 
was  that  terrible,  half-understood  thing  of  which  all 
good  women  stood  in  virtuous  fear. 

Susan  rallied  to  the  charge  as  well  as  she  could. 
She  had  not  really  sinned  in  actual  fact,  after  all,  and 
one  person  only  knew  that  she  had  meant  to  do  so. 
She  had  been  blinded  and  confused  by  her  experience 
in  a  world  where  every  commandment  was  lightly 
broken,  where  all  sacred  matters  were  regarded  as 
jokes. 

But  the  stain  remained,  rose  fresh  and  dreadful 
through  her  covering  excuses.  Consciousness  of  it 
influenced  every  moment  of  her  day  and  kept  her  wake- 
ful far  into  the  night.  Susan's  rare  laughter  was  cut 
short  by  it,  her  brave  resolves  were  felled  by  it,  her 
ambition  sank  defeated  before  the  memory  of  her 
utter,  pitiable  weakness.  A  hundred  times  a  day  she 
writhed  with  the  same  repulsion  and  shock  that  she 
might  have  felt  had  her  offense  been  a  well-concealed 
murder. 

She  had  immediately  written  Stephen  Bocqueraz  a 
shy,  reserved  little  letter,  in  the  steamship  company's 
care  at  Yokohama.  But  it  would  be  two  months  be- 
fore an  answer  to  that  might  be  expected,  and  mean- 
while there  was  great  financial  distress  at  the  board- 
ing-house. Susan  could  not  witness  it  without  at  least 
an  effort  to  help. 

Finally  she  wrote  Ella  a  gay,  unconcerned  note, 
veiling  with  nonsense  her  willingness  to  resume  the  old 
relationship.  The  answer  cut  her  to  the  quick.  Ella 
had  dashed  off  only  a  few  lines  of  crisp  news;  Mary 
Peacock  was  with  them  now,  they  were  all  crazy  about 
her.  If  Susan  wanted  a  position  why  didn't  she  apply 
to  Madame  Vera?  Ella  had  heard  her  say  that  she 
needed  girls.  And  she  was  sincerely  Susan's,  Ella 
Cornwallis  Saunders. 

Madame  Vera  was  a  milliner;  the  most  popular  of 
her  day.  Susan's  cheeks  flamed  as  she  read  the  little 
note.  But,  meditating  drearily,  it  occurred  to  her  tha* 


386  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

it  might  be  as  well  to  go  and  see  the  woman.  She, 
Susan,  had  a  knowledge  of  the  social  set  that  might 
be  valuable  in  that  connection.  While  she  dressed,  she 
pleased  herself  with  a  vision  of  Mademoiselle  Brown, 
very  dignified  and  severely  beautiful,  in  black  silk,  as 
Madame  Vera's  right-hand  woman. 

The  milliner  was  rushing  about  the  back  of  her 
store  at  the  moment  that  Susan  chanced  to  choose  for 
her  nervously  murmured  remarks,  and  had  to  have 
them  repeated  several  times.  Then  she  laughed  heart- 
ily and  merrily,  and  assured  Susan  in  very  imperfect 
and  very  audible  English,  that  forty  girls  were  already 
on  her  list  waiting  for  positions  in  her  establishment. 

"I  thought  perhaps — knowing  all  the  people " 

Susan  stammered  very  low. 

"How — why  should  that  be  so  good?"  Madame 
asked,  with  horrible  clearness.  "Do  I  not  know  them 
myself?" 

Susan  was  glad  to  escape  without  further  parley. 

"See,  now,"  said  Madame  Vera  in  a  low  tone,  as 
she  followed  Susan  to  the  door,  "You  do  not  come 
into  my  workshop,  eh?" 

"How  much?"  asked  Susan,  after  a  second's  thought. 

"Seven  dollars,"  said  the  other  with  a  quick  per- 
suasive nod,  "and  your  dinner.  That  is  something, 
eh?  And  more  after  a  while." 

But  Susan  shook  her  head.     And,  as  she  went  out 
into  the  steadily  falling  rain  again,  bitter  tears  blinded 
(her  eyes. 

She  cried  a  great  deal  in  these  days,  became  nervous 
and  sensitive  and  morbid.  She  moped  about  the  house, 
restless  and  excited,  unwilling  to  do  anything  that 
would  take  her  away  from  the  house  when  the  postman 
arrived,  reading  the  steamship  news  in  every  morn- 
ing's paper. 

Yet,  curiously  enough,  she  never  accepted  this  ex- 
perience as  similar  to  what  poor  Mary  Lou  had  under- 
gone so  many  years  ago, — this  was  not  a  "disappoint- 
ment in  love," — this  was  only  a  passing  episode.  Pres- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  387 

ently  she  would  get  herself  in  hand  again  and  aston- 
ish them  with  some  achievement  brilliant  enough  to 
sweep  these  dark  days  from  everyone's  memory. 

She  awaited  her  hour,  impatiently  at  first,  later  with 
a  sort  of  resentful  calm.  Susan's  return  home,  how- 
ever it  affected  them  financially,  was  a  real  delight  to 
her  aunt  and  Mary  Lou.  The  cousins  roomed  to- 
gether, were  together  all  day  long. 

Susan  presently  flooded  the  house  with  the  circu- 
lars of  a  New  York  dramatic  school,  wrote  mysterious 
letters  pertaining  to  them.  After  a  while  these  dis- 
appeared, and  she  spent  a  satisfied  evening  or  two  in 
filling  blanks  of  application  for  admission  into  a  hos- 
pital training-school.  In  February  she  worked  hard 
over  a  short  story  that  was  to  win  a  hundred  dollar 
prize.  Mary  Lou  had  great  confidence  in  it. 

The  two  loitered  over  their  toast  and  coffee,  after 
the  boarders'  breakfast,  made  more  toast  to  finish  the 
coffee,  and  more  coffee  to  finish  the  toast.  The  short 
winter  mornings  were  swiftly  gone;  in  the  afternoon 
Susan  and  Mary  Lou  dressed  with  great  care  and  went 
to  market.  They  would  stop  at  the  library  for  a  book, 
buy  a  little  bag  of  candy  to  eat  over  their  solitaire  in 
the  evening,  perhaps  pay  a  call  on  some  friend,  whose 
mild  history  of  financial  difficulties  and  helpless  endur- 
ance matched  their  own. 

Now  and  then,  on  Sundays,  the  three  women  crossed 
the  Oakland  ferry  and  visited  Virginia,  who  was  pa- 
tiently struggling  back  to  the  light.  They  would  find 
her  somewhere  in  the  great,  orderly,  clean  institution, 
with  a  knot  of  sweet-faced,  vague-ey^.d  children  clus- 
tered about  her.  "Good-bye,  Miss  'Ginia !"  the  un- 
earthly, happy  little  voices  would  call,  as  the  uncer- 
tain little  feet  echoed  away.  Susan  rather  liked  the 
atmosphere  of  the  big  institution,  and  vaguely  envied 
the  brisk  absorbed  attendants  who  passed  them  on  swift 
errands.  Stout  Mrs.  Lancaster,  for  all  her  panting 
and  running,  invariably  came  within  half  a  second  of 
missing  the  return  train  for  the  city;  the  three  would 


388  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

enter  it  laughing  and  gasping,  and  sink  breathless  into 
their  seats,  unable  for  sheer  mirth  to  straighten  their 
hats,  or  glance  at  their  fellow-passengers. 

In  March  Georgie's  second  little  girl,  delicate  and 
tiny,  was  born  too  soon,  and  the  sturdy  Myra  came  to 
her  maternal  grandmother  for  an  indefinite  stay. 
Georgie's  disappointment  over  the  baby's  sex  was  in- 
stantly swallowed  up  in  anxiety  over  the  diminutive 
Helen's  weight  and  digestion,  and  Susan  and  Mary  Lou 
were  delighted  to  prolong  Myra's  visit  from  week  to 
week.  Georgie's  first-born  was  a  funny,  merry  little 
girl,  and  Susan  developed  a  real  talent  for  amusing 
her  and  caring  for  her,  and  grew  very  fond  of  her. 
The  new  baby  was  well  into  her  second  month  before 
they  took  Myra  home, — a  dark,  crumpled  little  thing 
Susan  thought  the  newcomer,  and  she  thought  that  she 
had  never  seen  Georgie  looking  so  pale  and  thin. 
Georgie  had  always  been  freckled,  but  now  the  freckles 
seemed  fairly  to  stand  out  on  her  face.  But  in  spite  of 
the  children's  exactions,  and  the  presence  of  grim  old 
Mrs.  O'Connor,  Susan  saw  a  certain  strange  content 
in  the  looks  that  went  between  husband  and  wife. 

"Look  here,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  be  George 
Lancaster  O'Connor!"  said  Susan,  threateningly,  to 
the  new  baby. 

"I  don't  know  why  a  boy  wouldn't  have  been  named 
Joseph  Aloysius,  like  his  father  and  grandfather,"  said 
the  old  lady  disapprovingly. 

But  Georgie  paid  no  heed.  The  baby's  mother  was 
kneeling  beside  the  bed  where  little  Helen  lay,  her  eyes 
fairly  devouring  the  tiny  face. 

"You  don't  suppose  God  would  take  her  away  from 
me,  Sue,  because  of  that  nonsense  about  wanting  a 
boy?"  Georgie  whispered. 

Susan's  story  did  not  win  the  hundred  dollar  prize, 
but  it  won  a  fifth  prize  of  ten  dollars,  and  kept  her 
in  pocket  money  for  some  weeks.  After  that  Mary 
Lord  brought  home  an  order  for  twenty  place-cards 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  389 

for  a  child's  Easter  Party,  and  Susan  spent  several  days 
happily  fussing  with  water  colors  and  so  earned  five 
dollars  more. 

Time  did  not  hang  at  all  heavily  on  her  hands; 
there  was  always  an  errand  or  two  to  be  done  for 
auntie,  and  always  a  pack  of  cards  and  a  library  book 
with  which  to  fill  the  evening.  Susan  really  enjoyed 
the  lazy  evenings,  after  the  lazy  days.  She  and  Mary 
Lou  spent  the  first  week  in  April  in  a  flurry  of  linens 
and  ginghams,  making  shirtwaists  for  the  season;  for 
three  days  they  did  not  leave  the  house,  nor  dress  fully, 
and  they  ate  their  luncheons  from  the  wing  of  the 
sewing-machine. 

Spring  came  and  poured  over  the  whole  city  a  bath 
of  warmth  and  perfume.  The  days  lengthened,  the 
air  was  soft  and  languid.  Susan  loved  to  walk  to  mar- 
ket now,  loved  to  loiter  over  calls  in  the  late  after- 
noon, and  walk  home  in  the  lingering  sunset  light.  If 
a  poignant  regret  smote  her  now  and  then,  its  effect 
was  not  lasting,  she  dismissed  it  with  a  bitter  sigh. 

But  constant  humiliation  was  good  for  neither  mind 
nor  body;  Susan  felt  as  pinched  in  soul  as  she  felt 
actually  pinched  by  the  old  cheerless,  penniless  condi- 
tion, hard  and  bitter  elements  began  to  show  them- 
selves in  her  nature.  She  told  herself  that  one  great 
consolation  in  her  memories  of  Stephen  Bocqueraz  was 
that  she  was  too  entirely  obscure  a  woman  to  be 
brought  to  the  consideration  of  the  public,  whatever 
her  offense  might  or  might  not  be.  Cold  and  sullen, 
Susan  saw  herself  as  ill-used,  she  could  not  even  achieve 
human  contempt — she  was  not  worthy  of  considera- 
tion. Just  one  of  the  many  women  who  were  weak 

And  sometimes,  to  escape  the  desperate  circling  of 
her  thoughts,  she  would  jump  up  and  rush  out  for 
a  lonely  walk,  through  the  wind-blown,  warm  disorder 
of  the  summer  streets,  or  sometimes,  dropping  her  face 
suddenly  upon  a  crooked  arm,  she  would  burst  into 
bitter  weeping. 

Books    and   pictures,    random    conversations    over- 

\ 


390  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

heard,  or  contact  with  human  beings  all  served,  in 
these  days,  to  remind  her  of  herself.  Susan's  pride  and 
self-confidence  and  her  gay  ambition  had  sustained  her 
through  all  the  self-denial  of  her  childhood.  Now, 
failing  these,  she  became  but  an  irritable,  depressed 
and  discouraged  caricature  of  her  old  self.  Her  mind 
was  a  distressed  tribunal  where  she  defended  herself 
day  and  night;  convincing  this  accuser — convincing 
that  one — pleading  her  case  to  the  world  at  large.  Her 
aunt  and  cousin,  entirely  ignorant  of  its  cause,  still 
were  aware  that  there  was  a  great  change  in  her,  and 
watched  her  with  silent  and  puzzled  sympathy. 

But  they  gave  her  no  cause  to  feel  herself  a  fail- 
ure. They  thought  Susan  unusually  clever  and  gifted, 
and,  if  her  list  of  actual  achievements  were  small,  there 
seemed  to  be  no  limit  to  the  things  that  she  could  do. 
Mary  Lou  loved  to  read  the  witty  little  notes  she 
could  dash  off  at  a  moment's  notice,  Lydia  Lord  wiped 
her  eyes  with  emotion  that  Susan's  sweet,  untrained 
voice  aroused  when  she  sang  "Once  in  a  Purple  Twi- 
light," or  "Absent."  Susan's  famous  eggless  ginger- 
bread was  one  of  the  treats  of  Mrs.  Lancaster's  table. 

"How  do  you  do  it,  you  clever  monkey!"  said 
Auntie,  watching  over  Susan's  shoulder  the  girl's  quick 
fingers,  as  Susan  colored  Easter  cards  or  drew  clever 
sketches  of  Georgie's  babies,  or  scribbled  a  jingle  for  a 
letter  to  amuse  Virginia.  And  when  Susan  imitated 
Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell  as  Paula,  or  Mrs.  Fiske  as 
Becky  Sharp,  even  William  had  to  admit  that  she  was 
quite  clever  enough  to  be  a  professional  entertainer. 

"But  I  wish  I  had  one  definite  big  gift,  Billy,"  said 
Susan,  on  a  July  afternoon,  when  she  and  Mr.  Oliver 
were  on  the  ferry  boat,  going  to  Sausalito.  It  was  a 
Sunday,  and  Susan  thought  that  Billy  looked  particu- 
larly well  to-day,  felt  indeed,  with  some  discomfort, 
that  he  was  better  groomed  and  better  dressed  than 
she  was,  and  that  there  was  in  him  some  new  and 
baffling  quality,  some  reserve  that  she  could  not  com- 
mand. His  quick  friendly  smile  did  not  hide  the  fact 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  391 

that  his  attention  was  not  all  hers;  he  seemed  pleas- 
antly absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts.  Susan  gave  his 
clean-shaven,  clear-skinned  face  many  a  half-question- 
ing look  as  she  sat  beside  him  on  the  boat..  He  was 
more  polite,  more  gentle,  more  kind  that  she  remem- 
bered him — what  was  missing,  what  was  wrong  to-day? 

It  came  to  her  suddenly,  half-astonished  and  half- 
angry,  that  he  was  no  longer  interested  in  her.  Billy 
had  outgrown  her,  he  had  left  her  behind.  He  did 
not  give  her  his  confidence  to-day,  nor  ask  her  advice. 
He  scowled  now  and  then,  as  if  some  under-current  of 
her  chatter  vaguely  disturbed  him,  but  offered  no  com- 
ment. Susan  felt,  with  a  little,  sick  pressure  at  her 
heart,  that  somehow  she  had  lost  an  old  friend! 

He  was  stretched  out .  comfortably,  his  long  legs 
crossed  before  him,  his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  trous- 
ers pockets,  and  his  half-shut,  handsome  eyes  fixed  on 
the  rushing  strip  of  green  water  that  was  visible  be- 
tween the  painted  ropes  of  the  deck-rail. 

"And  what  are  your  own  plans,  Sue?"  he  presently 
asked,  unsmilingly. 

Susan  was  chilled  by  the  half-weary  tone. 

"Well,  I'm  really  just  resting  and  helping  Auntie, 

now,"  Susan  said  cheerfully.  "But  in  the  fall " 

she  made  a  bold  appeal  to  his  interest,  " — in  the  fall 
I  think  I  shall  go  to  New  York?" 

"New  York?"  he  echoed,  aroused.    "What  for?" 

"Oh,  anything!"  Susan  answered  confidently.  "There 
are  a  hundred  chances  there  to  every  one  here,"  she 
went  on,  readily,  "institutions  and  magazines  and  news- 
papers and  theatrical  agencies — Californians  always 
do  well  in  New  York!" 

"That  sounds  like  Mary  Lou,"  said  Billy,  drily. 
"What  does  she  know  about  it?" 

Susan  flushed  resentfully. 

"Well,  what  do  you!"  she  retorted  with  heat. 

"No,  I've  never  been  there,"  admitted  Billy,  with 
self-possession.  "But  I  know  more  about  it  than  Mary 
Lou!  She's  a  wonder  at  pipe-dreams, — my  Lord,  I'd 


392  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

rather  have  a  child  of  mine  turned  loose  in  the  street 
than  be  raised  according  to  Mary  Lou's  ideas  !  I  don't 
mean,"  Billy  interrupted  himself  to  say  seriously,  "that 
they  weren't  all  perfectly  dandy  to  me  when  I  was  a 
kid — you  know  how  I  love  the  whole  bunch !  But 
all  that  dope  about  not  having  a  chance  here,  and  being 
j 'unlucky'  makes  me  weary!  If  Mary  Lou  would  get 
up  in  the  morning,  and  put  on  a  clean  dress,  and  see 
how  things  were  going  in  the  kitchen,  perhaps  she'd 
know  more  about  the  boarding-house,  and  less  about 
New  York  I" 

"It  may  never  have  occurred  to  you,  Billy,  that  keep- 
ing a  boarding-house  isn't  quite  the  ideal  occupation 
for  a  young  gentlewoman!"  Susan  said  coldly. 

"Oh,  darn  everything!"  Billy  said,  under  his  breath. 
Susan  eyed  him  questioningly,  but  he  did  not  look  at 
her  again,  or  explain  the  exclamation. 

The  always  warm  and  welcoming  Carrolls  sur- 
rounded them  joyfully,  Susan  was  kissed  by  everybody, 
and  Billy  had  a  motherly  kiss  from  Mrs.  Carroll  in 
the  unusual  excitement  of  the  occasion. 

For  there  was  great  news.  Susan  had  it  from  all 
of  them  at  once;  found  herself  with  her  arms  linked 
about  the  radiant  Josephine  while  she  said  incredu- 
lously : 

"Oh,  you're  not/  Oh,  Jo,  I'm  so  glad!  Who  is 
it — and  tell  me  all  about  it — and  where's  his  pic- 
ture  " 

In  wild  confusion  they  all  straggled  out  to  the  lawn, 
and  Susan  sat  down  with  Betsey  at  her  feet,  Anna 
sitting  on  one  arm  of  her  low  chair,  and  Josephine 
kneeling,  with  her  hands  still  in  Susan's. 

He  was  Mr.  Stewart  Frothingham,  and  Josephine 
and  his  mother  and  sister  had  gone  up  to  Yale  for  his 
graduation,  and  "it"  had  been  instantaneous,  "we  knew 
that  very  day,"  said  Josephine,  with  a  lovely  awe  in 
her  eyes,  "but  we  didn't  say  anything  to  Mrs.  Frothing- 
ham or  Ethel  until  later."  They  had  all  gone  yacht- 
ing together,  and  to  Bar  Harbor,  and  then  Stewart 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  393 

had  gone  into  his  uncle's  New  York  office,  "we  shall 
have  to  live  in  New  York,"  Josephine  said,  radiantly, 
"but  one  of  the  girls  or  Mother  will  always  be  there  1" 

"Jo  says  it's  the  peachiest  house  you  ever  saw!" 
Betsey  contributed. 

"Oh,  Sue — right  down  at  the  end  of  Fifth  Ave- 
nue— but  you  don't  know  where  that  is,  do  you  ?  Any- 
way, it's  wonderful " 

It  was  all  wonderful,  everybody  beamed  over  it. 
Josephine  already  wore  her  ring,  but  no  announce- 
ment was  to  be  made  until  after  a  trip  she  would 
make  with  the  Frothinghams  to  Yellowstone  Park 
in  September.  Then  the  gallant  and  fortunate  and 
handsome  Stewart  would  come  to  California,  and  the 
wedding  would  be  in  October. 

"And  you  girls  will  all  fall  in  love  with  him!"  pro- 
phesied Josephine. 

"Fall?"  echoed  Susan  studying  photographs.  "I 
head  the  waiting  list!  You  grab-all !  He's  simply  per- 
fection— rich  and  stunning,  and  an  old  friend — and  a 
yacht  and  a  motor " 

"And  a  fine,  hard-working  fellow,  Sue,"  added  Jose- 
phine's mother. 

"I  begin  to  feel  old  and  unmarried,"  mourned  Susan. 
"What  did  you  say,  William  dear?"  she  added,  sud- 
denly turning  to  Billy,  with  a  honeyed  smile. 

They  all  shouted.  But  an  hour  or  two  later,  in 
the  kitchen,  Mrs.  Carroll  suddenly  asked  her  of  her 
friendship  with  Peter  Coleman. 

"Oh,  we've  not  seen  each  other  for  months,  Aunt 
Jo!"  Susan  said  cheerfully.  "I  don't  even  know  where 
he  is !  I  think  he  lives  at  the  club  since  the  crash." 

"There  was  a  crash?" 

"A  terrible  crash.  And  now  the  firm's  reorganized; 
it's  Hunter,  Hunter  &  Brauer.  Thorny  told  me  about 
it.  And  Miss  Sherman's  married,  and  Miss  Cottle's 
got  consumption  and  has  to  live  in  Arizona,  or  some- 
where. However, "  she  returned  to  the  original 

theme,  "Peter  seems  to  be  still  enjoying  life!  Did 


394  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

you  see  the  account  of  his  hiring  an  electric  delivery- 
truck,  and  driving  it  about  the  city  on  Christmas  Eve, 
to  deliver  his  own  Christmas  presents,  dressed  up  him- 
self as  an  expressman?  And  at  the  Bachelor's  dance, 
they  said  it  was  his  idea  to  freeze  the  floor  in  the 
Mapleroom,  and  skate  the  cotillion!" 

"Goose  that  he  is!"  Mrs.  Carroll  smiled.  "How 
hard  he  works  for  his  fun !  Well,  after  all  that's  Peter 
— one  couldn't  expect  him  to  change!" 

"Does  anybody  change?"  Susan  asked,  a  little  sadly. 
"Aren't  we  all  born  pretty  much  as  we're  going  to  be? 

There  are  so  many  lives "  She  had  tried  to  keep 

out  the  personal  note,  but  suddenly  it  crept  in,  and  she 
saw  the  kitchen  through  a  blur  of  tears.  "There 
are  so  many  lives,"  she  pursued,  unsteadily,  "that  seem 
to  miss  their  mark.  I  don't  mean  poor  people.  I  mean 
strong,  clever  young  women,  who  could  do  things,  and 
who  would  love  to  do  certain  work, — yet  who  can't 
get  hold  of  them!  Some  people  are  born  to  be  busy 
and  happy  and  prosperous,  and  others,  like  myself," 
said  Susan  bitterly,  "drift  about,  and  fail  at  one  thing 
after  another,  and  never  get  anywhere!" 

Suddenly  she  put  her  head  down  on  the  table  and 
burst  into  tears. 

"Why  Sue — why  Sue!"  The  motherly  arm  was 
about  her,  she  felt  Mrs.  Carroll's  cheek  against  her 
hair.  "Why,  little  girl,  you  musn't  talk  of  failure  at 
your  age!"  said  Mrs.  Carroll,  tenderly. 

"I'll  be  twenty-six  this  fall,"  Susan  said,  wiping  her 
eyes,  "and  I'm  not  started  yet!  I  don't  know  how  to 
begin.  Sometimes  I  think,"  said  Susan,  with  angry 
vigor,  "that  if  I  was  picked  right  out  of  this  city  and 
put  down  anywhere  else  on  the  globe,  I  could  be  useful 
and  happy!  But  here  I  can't!  How '  she  ap- 
pealed to  the  older  woman  passionately,  "How  can  I 
take  an  interest  in  Auntie's  boarding-house  when  she 
herself  never  keeps  a  bill,  doesn't  believe  in  system,  and 
likes  to  do  things  her  own  way?" 

"Sue,  I  do  think  that  things  at  home  are  very  hard 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  395 

for  you,"  Mrs.  Carroll  said  with  quick  sympathy.  "It's 
too  bad,  dear,  it's  just  the  sort  of  thing  that  I  think 
you  fine,  energetic,  capable  young  creatures  ought  to 
be  saved !  I  wish  we  could  think  of  just  the  work  that 
would  interest  you." 

"But  that's  it — I  have  no  gift!"  Susan  said,  despond- 
ingly. 

"But  you  don't  need  a  gift,  Sue.  The  work  of  the 
world  isn't  all  for  girls  with  gifts !  No,  my  dear,  you 
want  to  use  your  energies — you  won't  be  happy  until 
you  do.  You  want  happiness,  we  all  do.  And  there's 
only  one  rule  for  happiness  in  this  world,  Sue,  and 
that's  service.  Just  to  the  degree  that  they  serve  people 
are  happy,  and  no  more.  It's  an  infallible  test.  You 
can  try  nations  by  it,  you  can  try  kings  and  beggars. 
Poor  people  are  just  as  unhappy  as  rich  people,  when 
they're  idle;  and  rich  people  are  really  happy  only 
when  they're  serving  somebody  or  something.  A  mil- 
lionaire— a  multimillionaire — may  be  utterly  wretched, 
and  some  poor  little  clerk  who  goes  home  to  a  sick 
wife,  and  to  a  couple  of  little  babies,  may  be  abso- 
lutely content — probably  is." 

"But  you  don't  think  that  the  poor,  as  a  class,  are 
happier  than  the  rich?" 

"Why,  of  course  they  are!" 

"Lots  of  workingmen's  wives  are  unhappy,"  sub- 
mitted Susan. 

"Because  they're  idle  and  shiftless  and  selfish,  Sue. 
But  there  are  some  among  them  who  are  so  busy  mix- 
ing up  spice  cake,  and  making  school-aprons,  and  filling 
lamps  and  watering  gardens  that  they  can't  stop  to  read 
the  new  magazines, — and  those  are  the  happiest  people 
in  the  world,  I  think.  No,  little  girl,  remember  that 
rule.  Not  money,  or  success,  or  position  or  travel  or 
love  makes  happiness, — service  is  the  secret." 

Susan  was  watching  her  earnestly,  wistfully.  Now 
she  asked  simply: 

"Where  can  I  serve?" 

"Where  cnn  you  serve — you  blessed  child!"  Mrs. 


396  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Carroll  said,  ending  her  little  dissertation  with  a  laugh. 
"Well,  let  me  see — I've  been  thinking  of  you  lately, 
Sue,  and  wondering  why  you  never  thought  of  settle- 
ment work?  You'd  be  so  splendid,  with  your  good- 
nature, and  your  buoyancy,  and  your  love  for  children. 
Of  course  they  don't  pay  much,  but  money  isn't  your 
object,  is  it?" 

"No-o,  I  suppose  it  isn't,"  Susan  said  uncertainly. 
"I — I  don't  see  why  it  should  be!"  And  she  seemed 
to  feel  her  horizon  broadening  as  she  spoke. 

She  and  Billy  did  not  leave  until  ten  o'clock,  fare- 
wells, as  always,  were  hurried,  but  Josephine  found 
time  to  ask  Susan  to  be  her  bridesmaid,  Betsey  pleaded 
for  a  long  visit  after  the  wedding,  "we'll  simply  die 
without  Jo!"  and  Anna,  with  her  serious  kiss,  whisp1 
ered,  "Stand  by  us,  Sue — it's  going  to  break  Mother's 
heart  to  have  her  go  so  far  away!" 

Susan  could  speak  of  nothing  but  Josephine's  happi- 
ness for  awhile,  when  she  and  Billy  were  on  the  boat. 
They  had  the  dark  upper  deck  almost  to  themselves, 
lights  twinkled  everywhere  about  them,  on  the  black 
waters  of  the  bay.  There  was  no  moon.  She  pre^- 
ently  managed  a  delicately  tentative  touch  upon  his 
own  feeling  in  the  matter.  "He — he  was  glad,  wasn't 
he?  He  hadn't  been  seriously  hurt?" 

Bill,  catching  her  drift,  laughed  out  joyously. 

"That's  so — I  was  crazy  about  her  once,  wasn't  I?" 
Billy  asked,  smilingly  reminiscent.  "But  I  like  Anna 
better  now.  Only  I've  sort  of  thought  sometimes  that 
Anna  has  a  crush  on  someone — Peter  Coleman» 
maybe." 

"No,  not  on  him,"  Susan  hesitated.  "There's  a 
doctor  at  the  hospital,  but  he's  awfully  rich  and  im- 
portant  "  she  admitted. 

"Oh."  Billy  withdrew.  "And  you — are  you  still 
crazy  about  that  mutt?"  he  asked. 

"Peter?  I've  not  seen  him  for  months.  But  I  don't 
see  why  you  call  him  a  mutt!" 

"Say,   did  you  ever  know  that  he  made   a  pretty 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  397 

good  thing  out  of  Mrs.  Carroll's  window  washer?" 
Billy  asked  confidentally,  leaning  toward  her  in  the 
dark. 

uHe  paid  her  five  hundred  dollars  for  it!"  Susan 
flashed  back.  "Did  you  know  that?" 

"Sure  I  knew  that,"  Billy  said. 

"Well — well,  did  he  make  more  than  that?"  Susan 
asked. 

"He  sold  it  to  the  Wakefield  Hardware  people  for 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars,"  Billy  announced. 

;<For  what!" 

"For  twenty-five  thousand,"  he  repeated.  "They're 
going  to  put  them  into  lots  of  new  apartments.  The 
National  Duplex,  they  call  it.  Yep,  it's  a  big  thing, 
I  guess." 

"Bill,  you  mean  twenty-five  hundred!" 

"Twenty-five  thousand,  I  tell  you!  It  was  in  the 
'Scientific  American,'  I  can  show  it  to  you!" 

Susan  kept  a  moment's  shocked  silence. 

"Billy,  I  don't  believe  he  would  do  that!"  she  said 
at  last. 

"Oh,  shucks,"  Billy  said  good-naturedly,  "it  was 
rotten,  but  it  wasn't  as  bad  as.  that!  It  was  legal 
enough.  She  was  pleased  with  her  five  hundred,  and 
I  suppose  he  told  himself  that,  but  for  him,  she  mightn't 
have  had  that!  Probably  he  meant  to  give  her  a  fat 
check- " 

"Give  her?  Why,  it  was  hers!"  Susan  burst  out. 
"What  did  Peter  Coleman  have  to  do  with  it,  any- 
way!" 

"Well,  that's  the  way  all  big  fortunes  are  built  up," 
Billy  said.  "You  happen  to  see  this,  though,  and  that's 
why  it  seems  so  rotten!" 

"I'll  never  speak  to  Peter  Coleman  again!"  Susan 
declared,  outraged. 

"You'll  have  to  cut  out  a  good  many  of  your  friends 
in  the  Saunders  set  if  you  want  to  be  consistent,"  Billy 
said.  "This  doesn't  seem  to  me  half  as  bad  as  some 
others  J  What  I  think  is  rotten  is  keeping  hundreds 


398  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

of  acres  of  land  idle,  for  years  and  years,  or  shutting 
poor  little  restless  kids  up  in  factories,  or  paying  fac- 
tory girls  less  than  they  can  live  on,  and  drawing  rent 
from  the  houses  where  they  are  ruined,  body  and  soul  I 
The  other  day  some  of  our  men  were  discharged  be- 
cause of  bad  times,  and  as  they  walked  out  they  passed 
Carpenter's  eighteen-year-old  daughter  sitting  in  the 
motor,  with  a  chauffeur  in  livery  in  front,  and  with  her 
six-hundred-dollar  Pekingese  sprawling  in  her  lap,  in 
his  little  gold  collar.  Society's  built  right  on  that  sort 
of  thing,  Sue!  you'd  be  pretty  surprised  if  you  could 
see  a  map  of  the  bad-house  district,  with  the  owners' 
names  attached." 

"They  can't  be  held  responsible  for  the  people  who 
rent  their  property!"  Susan  protested. 

"Bocqueraz  told  me  that  night  that  in  New  York 
you'll  see  nice-looking  maids,  nice-looking  chauffeurs, 
and  magnificent  cars,  any  afternoon,  airing  the  dogs 
in  the  park,"  said  Billy. 

The  name  silenced  Susan;  she  felt  her  breath  come 
short. 

"He  was  a  dandy  fellow,"  mused  Billy,  not  notic- 
ing. "Didn't  you  like  him?" 

"Like  him!"  burst  from  Susan's  overcharged  heart. 
An  amazed  question  or  two  from  him  brought  the 
whole  story  out.  The  hour,  the  darkness,  the  effect  of 
Josephine's  protected  happiness,  and  above  all,  the  de- 
sire to  hold  him,  to  awaken  his  interest,  combined  to 
break  down  her  guard. 

She  told  him  everything,  passionately  and  swiftly, 
dwelling  only  upon  the  swift  rush  of  events  that  had 
confused  her  sense  of  right  and  wrong,  and  upon  the 
writer's  unparalleled  devotion. 

Billy,  genuinely  shocked  at  her  share  of  the  affair, 
was  not  inclined  to  take  Bocqueraz's  protestations  very 
seriously.  Susan  found  herself  in  the  odious  and  un- 
foreseen position  of  defending  Stephen  Bocqueraz's 
intentions. 

"What  a  dirty  rotter  he  must  be,  when  he  seemed 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  399 

such  a  prince!"  was  William's  summary.  "Pretty 
tough  on  you,  Sue,"  he  added,  with  fraternal  kindly 
contempt,  "Of  course  you  would  take  him  seriously, 
and  believe  every  word!  A  man  like  that  knows  just 
how  to  go  about  it, — and  Lord,  you  came  pretty  near 
getting  in  deep!" 

Susan's  face  burned  and  she  bit  her  lip  in  the  dark- 
ness. It  was  unbearable  that  Billy  should  think  Boc- 
queraz  less  in  earnest  than  she  had  been,  should  imagine 
her  so  easily  won!  She  wished  heartily  that  she  had 
not  mentioned  the  affair. 

"He  probably  does  that  everywhere  he  goes,"  said 
Billy,  thoughtfully.  "You  had  a  pretty  narrow  escape, 
Sue,  and  I'll  bet  he  thought  he  got  out  of  it  pretty 
well,  too !  After  the  thing  had  once  started,  he  prob- 
ably began  to  realize  that  you  are  a  lot  more  decent 
than  most,  and  you  may  bet  he  felt  pretty  rotten 
about  it " 


"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  didn't  mean  to- 


began  Susan  hotly,  stung  even  beyond  anger  by  out- 
raged pride.  But,  as  the  enormity  of  her  question 
smote  her  suddenly,  she  stopped  short,  with  a  sensa- 
tion almost  of  nausea. 

"Marry  you?"  Billy  finished  it  for  her.  "I  don't 
know — probably  he  would.  Lord,  Lord,  what  a 
blackguard!  What  a  skunk!"  And  Billy  got  up  with 
a  short  breath,  as  if  he  were  suffocating,  walked  away 
from  her,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  across  the 
broad  dark  deck. 

Susan  felt  bitter  remorse  and  shame  sweep  her  like 
a  flame  as  he  left  her.  She  felt,  sitting  there  alone 
in  the  darkness,  as  if  she  would  die  of  the  bitterness 
of  knowing  herself  at  last.  In  beginning  her  confidence, 
she  had  been  warmed  by  the  thought  of  the  amazing 
and  romantic  quality  of  her  news,  she  had  thought 
that  Bocqueraz's  admiration  would  seem  a  great  thing 
in  Billy's  eyes.  Now  she  felt  sick  and  cold  and 
ashamed,  the  glamour  fell,  once  and  for  all,  from  what 
she  had  done  and,  as  one  hideous  memory  after  an- 


400  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

other  roared  in  her  ears,  Susan  felt  as  if  her  thoughts 
would  drive  her  mad. 

Billy  came  suddenly  back  to  his  seat  beside  her,  and 
laid  his  hand  over  hers.  She  knew  that  he  was  trying 
to  comfort  her. 

"Never  you  mind,  Sue,"  he  said,  "it's  not  your  fault 
that  there  are  men  rotten  enough  to  take  advantage 
of  a  girl  like  you.  You're  easy,  Susan,  you're  too 
darned  easy,  you  poor  kid.  But  thank  God,  you  got 
out  in  time.  It  would  have  killed  your  aunt,"  said 
Billy,  with  a  little  shudder,  "and  I  would  never  have 
forgiven  myself.  You're  like  my  own  sister,  Sue,  and 
I  never  saw  it  coming!  I  thought  you  were  wise  to 
dope  like  that " 

"Wise  to  dope  like  that!"  Susan  could  have  risen 
up  and  slapped  him,  in  the  darkness.  She  could  have 
burst  into  frantic  tears;  she  would  gladly  have  felt  the 
boat  sinking — sinking  to  hide  her  shame  and  his  con- 
tempt for  her  under  the  friendly,  quiet  water. 

For  long  years  the  memory  of  that  trip  home  from 
Sausalito,  the  boat,  the  warm  and  dusty  ferry-place,  the 
jerking  cable-car,  the  grimy,  wilted  street,  remained 
vivid  and  terrible  in  her  memory. 

She  found  herself  in  her  room,  talking  to  the  aroused 
Mary  Lou.  She  found  herself  in  bed,  her  heart  beat- 
ing last,  her  eyes  wide  and  bright.  Susan  meant  to 
stop  thinking  of  what  could  not  be  helped,  and  get  to 
sleep  at  once. 

The  hours  went  by,  still  she  lay  wakeful  and  sick 
at  heart.  She  turned  and  tossed,  sighed,  buried  her 
face  in  her  pillow,  turned  and  tossed  again.  Shame 
shook  her,  worried  her  in  dreams,  agonized  her  when 
she  was  awake.  Susan  felt  as  if  she  would  lose  her 
mind  in  the  endless  hours  of  this  terrible  night. 

There  was  a  little  hint  of  dawn  in  the  sky  when  she 
crept  wearily  over  Mary  Lou's  slumbering  form. 

"Ha!    What  is  it?"  asked  Mary  Lou. 

"It's  early — I'm  going  out — my  head  aches !"  Susan 
said.  Mary  Lou  sank  back  gratefully,  and  Susan 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  401 

dressed  in  the  dim  light.  She  crept  downstairs,  and 
went  noiselessly  out  into  the  chilly  street. 

Her  head  ached,  and  her  skin  felt  dry  and  hot.  She 
took  an  early  car  for  North  Beach,  sat  mute  and  chilled 
on  the  dummy  until  she  reached  the  terminal,  and 
walked  blindly  down  to  the  water.  Little  waves  shifted 
wet  pebbles  on  the  shore,  a  cool  wind  sighed  high  above 
her. 

Susan  found  a  sheltered  niche  among  piles  of  lum- 
ber— and  sat  staring  dully  ahead  of  her.  The  water 
was  dark,  but  the  fog  was  slowly  lifting,  to  show  barges 
at  anchor,  and  empty  rowboats  rocking  by  the  pier. 
The  tide  was  low,  piles  closely  covered  with  shining 
black  barnacles  rose  lank  from  the  water;  odorous 
webs  of  green  seaweed  draped  the  wooden  cross-bars 
and  rusty  iron  cleats  of  the  dock. 

Susan  remembered  the  beaches  she  had  known  in 
her  childhood,  when,  a  small  skipping  person,  she  had 
run  ahead  of  her  father  and  mother,  wet  her  shoes  in 
the  sinking  watery  sand,  and  curved  away  from  the  path 
of  the  waves  in  obedience  to  her  mother's  voice.  She 
remembered  walks  home  beside  the  roaring  water,  with 
the  wind  whistling  in  her  ears,  the  sunset  full  in  her 
eyes,  her  tired  little  arms  hooked  in  the  arms  of  the 
parents  who  shouted  and  laughed  at  each  other  over 
the  noisy  elements. 

"My  good,  dear,  hungry,  little,  tired  Mouse!"  her 
mother  had  called  her,  in  the  blissful  hour  of  supper 
and  warmth  and  peace  that  followed. 

Her  mother  had  always  been  good — her  father 
good.  Every  one  was  good, — even  impractical,  absurd 
Mary  Lou,  and  homely  Lydia  Lord,  and  little  Miss 
Sherman  at  the  office,  with  her  cold  red  hands,  and  her 
hungry  eyes, — every  one  was  good,  except  Susan. 

Dawn  came,  and  sunrise.  The  fog  lifted  like  a  cur- 
tain, disappeared  in  curling  filaments  against  the  sun. 
Little  brown-sailed  fishing-smacks  began  to  come  dip- 
ping home,  sunlight  fell  warm  and  bright  on  the  roofs 
of  Alcatraz,  the  blue  hills  beyond  shov/ed  soft  against 


402  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

the  bluer  sky.  Ferry  boats  cut  delicate  lines  of  foam 
in  the  sheen  of  the  bay,  morning  whistles  awakened 
the  town.  Susan  felt  the  sun's  grateful  warmth  on 
her  shoulders  and,  watching  the  daily  miracle  of  birth, 
felt  vaguely  some  corresponding  process  stir  her  own 
heart.  Nature  cherishes  no  yesterdays;  the  work  of 
rebuilding  and  replenishing  goes  serenely  on.  Punc- 
tual dawn  never  finds  the  world  unready,  April's  bur- 
geoning colors  bury  away  forever  the  memories  of 
winter  wind  and  deluge. 

"There  is  some  work  that  I  may  still  do,  in  this 
world,  there  is  a  place  somewhere  for  me,"  thought 
Susan,  walking  home,  hungry  and  weary,  "Now  the 
question  is  to  find  them!" 

Early  in  October  came  a  round-robin  from  the  Car- 
rolls.  Would  Susan  come  to  them  for  Thanksgiving 
and  stay  until  Josephine's  wedding  on  December  third? 
"It  will  be  our  last  time  all  together  in  one  sense," 
wrote  Mrs.  Carroll,  "and  we  really  need  you  to  help 
us  over  the  dreadful  day  after  Jo  goes !" 

Susan  accepted  delightedly  for  the  wedding,  but  left 
the  question  of  Thanksgiving  open;  her  aunt  felt  the 
need  of  her  for  the  anniversary.  Jinny  would  be  at 
home  from  Berkeley  and  Alfred  and  his  wife  Freda 
were  expected  for  Thanksgiving  Day.  Mrs.  Alfred 
was  a  noisy  and  assertive  little  person,  whose  com- 
placent bullying  of  her  husband  caused  his  mother  keen 
distress.  Alfred  was  a  bookkeeper  now,  in  the  bakery 
of  his  father-in-law,  in  the  Mission,  and  was  a  changed 
man  in  these  days;  his  attitude  toward  his  wife  was 
one  of  mingled  fear  and  admiration.  It  was  a  very 
large  bakery,  and  the  office  was  neatly  railed  off,  "really 
like  a  bank,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Lancaster,  but  Ma  had 
nearly  fainted  when  first  she  saw  her  only  son  in  this 
enclosure,  and  never  would  enter  the  bakery  again. 
The  Alfreds  lived  in  a  five-room  flat  bristling  with 
modern  art  papers  and  shining  woodwork;  the  dining- 
room  was  papered  in  a  bold  red,  with  black  wood  trim- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  403 

mings  and  plate-rail;  the  little  drawing-room  had  a 
gas-log  surrounded  with  green  tiles.  Freda  made  end- 
less pillows  for  the  narrow  velour  couch,  and  was  very 
proud  of  her  Mission  rocking-chairs  and  tasseled  por- , 
tieres.  Her  mother's  wedding-gift  had  been  a  piano 
with  a  mechanical  player  attached;  the  bride  was  hos- 
pitable and  she  loved  to  have  groups  of  nicely  dressed 
young  people  listening  to  the  music,  while  she  cooked 
for  them  in  the  chafing-dish.  About  once  a  month,  in- 
stead of  going  to  "Mama's"  for  an  enormous  Sunday 
dinner,  she  and  Alfred  had  her  fat  "Mama"  and  her 
small  wiry  "Poppa"  and  little  Augusta  and  Lulu  and 
Heinle  come  to  eat  a  Sunday  dinner  with  them.  And 
when  this  happened  stout  Mrs.  Hultz  always  sent 
her  own  cook  over  the  day  before  with  a  string  of 
sausages  and  a  fowl  and  a  great  mocha  cake,  and 
cheese  and  hot  bread,  so  that  Freda's  party  should  not 
"cost  those  kits  so  awful  a  lot,"  as  she  herself  put  it. 

And  no  festivity  was  thought  by  Freda  to  warrant 
Alfred's  approach  to  his  old  habits.  She  never  allowed 
him  so  much  as  a  sherry  sauce  on  his  pudding.  She 
frankly  admitted  that  she  "yelled  bloody  murder"  if  he 
suggested  absenting  himself  from  her  side  for  so  much 
as  a  single  evening.  She  adored  him,  she  thought  him 
the  finest  type  of  man  she  knew,  but  she  allowed  him 
no  liberty. 

"A  doctor  told  Ma  once  that  when  a  man  drank,  as 
Alfie  did,  he  couldn't  stop  right  off  short,  without 
affecting  his  heart,"  said  Mary  Lou,  gently. 

"All  right,  let  it  affect  his  heart  then!"  said  the 
twenty-year-old  Freda  hardily.  Ma  herself  thought 
this  disgustingly  cold-blooded;  she  said  it  did  not  seem 
refined  for  a  woman  to  admit  that  her  husband  had 
his  failings,  and  Mary  Lou  said  frankly  that  it  was 
easy  enough  to  see  where  that  marriage  would  end,  but 
Susan  read  more  truly  the  little  bride's  flashing  blue 
eyes  and  the  sudden  scarlet  in  her  cheeks,  and  she  won 
Freda's  undying  loyalty  by  a  surreptitious  pressure 
of  her  fingers. 


ONE  afternoon  in  mid-November  Susan  and  Mary 
Lou  chanced  to  be  in  the  dining-room,  working  over 
a  puzzle-card  that  had  been  delivered  as  an  advertise- 
ment of  some  new  breakfast  food.  They  had  intended 
to  go  to  market  immediately  after  lunch,  but  it  was  now 
three  o'clock,  and  still  they  hung  over  the  fascinating 
little  combination  of  paper  angles  and  triangles,  feeling 
that  any  instant  might  see  the  problem  solved. 

Suddenly  the  telephone  rang,  and  Susan  went  to 
answer  it,  while  Mary  Lou,  who  had  for  some  min- 
utes been  loosening  her  collar  and  belt  preparatory  to 
changing  for  the  street,  trailed  slowly  upstairs,  hold- 
ing her  garments  together. 

Outside  was  a  bright,  warm  winter  day,  babies  were 
being  wheeled  about  in  the  sunshine,  and  children,  just 
out  of  school,  were  shouting  and  running  in  the  street. 
From  where  Susan  sat  at  the  telephone  she  could  see 
a  bright  angle  of  sunshine  falling  through  the  hall  win- 
dow upon  the  faded  carpet  of  the  rear  entry,  and  could 
hear  Mrs.  Cortelyou's  cherished  canary,  Bobby,  burst- 
ing his  throat  in  a  cascade  of  song  upstairs.  The  ca- 
nary was  still  singing  when  she  hung  up  the  receiver, 
two  minutes  later, — the  sound  drove  through  her 
temples  like  a  knife,  and  the  placid  sunshine  in  the 
entry  seemed  suddenly  brazen  and  harsh. 

Susan  went  upstairs  and  into  Mary  Lou's  room. 

"Mary  Lou "  she  began. 

"Why,  what  is  it?"  said  Mary  Lou,  catching  her 
arm,  for  Susan  was  very  white,  and  she  was  staring 
at  her  cousin  with  wide  eyes  and  parted  lips. 

"It  was  Billy,"  Susan  answered.  "Josephine  Car- 
roll's dead." 

404 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  405 

"What!"  Mary  Lou  said  sharply. 

"That's  what  he  said,"  Susan  repeated  dully.  "There 
was  an  accident, — at  Yellowstone — they  were  going  to 
meet  poor  Stewart — and  when  he  got  in — they  had 
to  tell  him — poor  fellow!  Ethel  Frothingham's  arm 
was  broken,  and  Jo  never  moved — Phil  has  taken  Mrs. 
Carroll  on  to-day — Billy  just  saw  them  off!"  Susan 
sat  down  at  the  bureau,  and  rested  her  head  in  her 
hands.  "I  can't  believe  it !"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 
"I  simply  cannot  believe  it!" 

"Josephine  Carroll  killed!  Why — it's  the  most 
awful  thing  I  ever  heard!"  Mary  Lou  exclaimed.  Her 
horror  quieted  Susan. 

"Billy  didn't  know  anything  more  than  that,"  Susan 
'said,  beginning  hastily  to  change  her  dress.  "I'll  go 
straight  over  there,  I  guess.  He  said  they  only  had 
a  wire,  but  that  one  of  the  afternoon  papers  has  a 
short  account.  My  goodness — goodness — goodness — 
when  they  were  all  so  happy !  And  Jo  always  the  gay- 
est of  them  all — it  doesn't  seem  possible!" 

Still  dazed,  she  crossed  the  bay  in  the  pleasant  aft- 
ernoon sunlight,  and  went  up  to  the  house.  Anna  was 
already  there,  and  the  four  spent  a  quiet,  sad  even- 
ing together.  No  details  had  reached  them,  the  full 
force  of  the  blow  was  not  yet  felt.  When  Anna  had  to 
go  away  the  next  day  Susan  stayed;  she  and  Betsy  got 
the  house  ready  for  the  mother's  home-coming,  put 
away  Josephine's  dresses,  her  tennis-racket,  her 
music 

"It's  not  right!"  sobbed  the  rebellious  little  sister. 
"She  was  the  best  of  us  all — and  we've  had  so  much 
to  bear!  It  isn't  fair!" 

"It's  all  wrong,"  Susan  said,  heavily. 

Mrs.  Carroll,  brave  and  steady,  if  very  tired,  came 
home  on  the  third  day,  and  with  her  coming  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  whole  house  changed.  Anna  had  come 
back  again;  the  sorrowing  girls  drew  close  about  their 
mother,  and  Susan  felt  that  she  was  not  needed. 

"Mrs.  Carroll  is  the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the 


406  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

world  I"  she  said  to  Billy,  going  home  after  the  funeral. 
"Yes,"  Billy  answered  frowningly.     "She's  too  darn 
wonderful !     She  can't  keep  this  up !" 

Georgie  and  Joe  came  to  Mrs.  Lancaster's  house 
for  an  afternoon  visit  on  Thanksgiving  Day,  arriving 
in  mid-afternoon  with  the  two  babies,  and  taking  Myra 
and  Helen  home  again  before  the  day  grew  too  cold. 
Virginia  arrived,  using  her  own  eyes  for  the  first  time 
in  years,  and  the  sisters  and  their  mother  laughed  and 
cried  together  over  the  miracle  of  the  cure.  When 
Alfie  and  Freda  came  there  was  more  hilarity.  Freda 
very  prettily  presented  her  mother-in-law,  whose  birth- 
day chanced  to  fall  on  the  day,  with  a  bureau  scarf. 
Alfred,  urged,  Susan  had  no  doubt,  by  his  wife,  gave 
his  mother  ten  dollars,  and  asked  her  with  a  grin  to 
buy  herself  some  flowers.  Virginia  had  a  lace  collar 
for  Ma,  and  the  white-coated  O'Connor  babies,  with 
much  pushing  and  urging,  bashfully  gave  dear 
Grandma  a  tissue-wrapped  bundle  that  proved  to  be  a 
silk  gown.  Mary  Lou  unexpectedly  brought  down  from 
her  room  a  box  containing  six  heavy  silver  tea-spoons. 

Where  Mary  Lou  ever  got  the  money  to  buy  this 
gift  was  rather  a  mystery  to  everyone  except  Susan, 
who  had  chanced  to  see  the  farewells  that  took  place 
between  her  oldest  cousin  and  Mr.  Ferd  Eastman, 
when  the  gentleman,  who  had  been  making  a  ten-days 
visit  to  the  city,  left  a  day  or  two  earlier  for  Vir- 
ginia City. 

"Pretty  soon  after  his  wife's  death!"  Susan  had 
accused  Mary  Lou,  vivaciously. 

"Ferd  has  often  kissed  me — like  a  brother — 
stammered  Mary  Lou,  coloring  painfully,  and  with 
tears  in  her  kind  eyes.  And,  to  Susan's  amazement, 
her  aunt,  evidently  informed  of  the  event  by  Mary 
Lou,  had  asked  her  not  to  tease  her  cousin  about  Ferd. 
Susan  felt  certain  that  the  spoons  were  from  Ferd. 

She  took  great  pains  to  make  the  holiday  dinner 
unusually  festive,  decorated  the  table,  and  put  on  her 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  407 

prettiest  evening  gown.  There  were  very  few  boarders 
left  in  the  house  on  this  day,  and  the  group  that  gath- 
ered about  the  big  turkey  was  like  one  large  family. 
Billy  carved,  and  Susan  with  two  paper  candle-shades 
pinned  above  her  ears,  like  enormous  rosettes,  was 
more  like  her  old  cilly  merry  self  than  these  people 
who  loved  her  had  seen  her  for  years. 

It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Lancaster, 
pushing  back  an  untasted  piece  of  mince  pie,  turned 
to  Susan  a  strangely  flushed  and  swollen  face,  and  said 
thickly : 

"Air — I  think  I  must — air!" 

She  went  out  of  the  dining-room,  and  they  heard 
her  open  the  street  door,  in  the  hall.  A  moment  later 
Virginia  said  "Mama !"  in  so  sharp  a  tone  that  the 
others  were  instantly  silenced,  and  vaguely  alarmed. 

"Hark!"  said  Virginia,  "I  thought  Mama  called!" 
Susan,  after  a  half-minute  of  nervous  silence,  suddenly 
jumped  up  and  ran  after  her  aunt. 

She  never  forgot  the  dark  hall,  and  the  sensation 
when  her  foot  struck  something  soft  and  inert  that  lay 
in  the  doorway.  Susan  gave  a  great  cry  of  fright  as 
she  knelt  down,  and  discovered  it  to  be  her  aunt. 

Confusion  followed.  There  was  a  great  uprising 
of  voices  in  the  dining-room,  chairs  grated  on  the  floor. 
Someone  lighted  the  hall  gas,  and  Susan  found  a  dozen 
hands  ready  to  help  her  raise  Mrs.  Lancaster  from 
the  floor. 

"She's  just  fainted!"  Susan  said,  but  already  with 
a  premonition  that  it  was  no  mere  faint. 

"We'd  better  have  a  doctor  though "  she  heard 

Billy  say,  as  they  carried  her  aunt  in  to  the  dining- 
room  couch.  Mrs.  Lancaster's  breath  was  coming 
short  and  heavy,  her  eyes  were  shut,  her  face  dark  with 
blood. 

"Oh,  why  did  we  let  Joe  go  home!"  Mary  Lou 
burst  out  hysterically. 

Her  mother  evidently  caught  the  word,  for  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  whispered  to  Susan,  with  an  effort: 


408  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Georgie — good,  good  man — my  love " 

"You  feel  better,  don't  you,  darling?"  Susan  asked, 
in  a  voice  rich  with  love  and  tenderness. 

"Oh,  yes  I"  her  aunt  whispered,  earnestly,  watching 
her  with  the  unwavering  gaze  of  a  child. 

"Of  course  she's  better — You're  all  right,   aren't 
you?"   said  a   dozen   voices.      "She   fainted  away  I — 
Didn't  you  hear  her  fall? — I  didn't  hear  a  thing  I- 
Well,  you  fainted,  didn't  you? — You  felt  faint,  didn't 
you?'; 

"Air "  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  in  a  thickened,  deep 

voice.  Her  eyes  moved  distressedly  from  one  face  to 
another,  and  as  Virginia  began  to  unfasten  the  pin 
at  her  throat,  she  added  tenderly,  "Don't  prick  your- 
self, Bootsy!" 

"Oh,  she's  very  sick — she's  very  sick!"  Susan  whisp- 
ered, with  white  lips,  to  Billy  who  was  at  the  tele- 
phone. 

"What  do  you  think  of  sponging  her  face  off  with 
ice-water?"  he  asked  in  a  low  tone.  Susan  fled  to  the 
kitchen.  Mary  Lou,  seated  by  the  table  where  the 
great  roast  stood  in  a  confusion  of  unwashed  plates 
and  criss-crossed  silver,  was  sobbing  violently. 

"Oh,  Sue — she's  dying!"  whispered  Mary  Lou,  "I 
know  it!  Oh,  my  God,  what  will  we  do!" 

Susan  plunged  her  hand  in  a  tall  pitcher  for  a  lump 
of  ice  and  wrapped  it  in  a  napkin.  A  moment  later 
she  knelt  by  her  aunt's  side.  The  sufferer  gave  a  groan 
at  the  touch  of  ice,  but  a  moment  later  she  caught 
Susan's  wrist  feverishly  and  muttered  "Good!" 

"Make  all  these  fools  go  upstairs!"  said  Alfie's  wife 
in  a  fierce  whisper.  She  was  carrying  out  plates  and 
clearing  a  space  about  the  couoh.  Virginia,  kneeling 
by  her  mother,  repeated  over  and  over  again,  in  an 
even  and  toneless  voice,  "Oh  God,  spare  her — Oh  God, 
spare  her!" 

The  doctor  was  presently  among  them,  dragged, 
Susan  thought,  from  the  faint  odor  of  wine  about  him, 
from  his  own  dinner.  He  helped  Billy  carry  the  now 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  409 

unconscious  woman  upstairs,  and  gave  Susan  brisk 
orders. 

"There  has  undoubtedly  been  a  slight  stroke,"  said 
he. 

"Oh,  doctor!"  sobbed  Mary  Lou,  "will  she  get 
well?" 

"I  don't  anticipate  any  immediate  change,"  said  the 
doctor  to  Susan,  after  a  dispassionate  look  at  Mary 
Lou,  "and  I  think  you  had  better  have  a  nurse." 

"Yes,  doctor,"  said  Susan,  very  efficient  and  calm. 

"Had  you  a  nurse  in  mind?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"Well,  no,"  Susan  answered,  feeling  as  if  she  had 
failed  him. 

"I  can  get  one,"  said  the  doctor  thoughtfully. 

"Oh,  doctor,  you  don't  know  what  she's  been  to  us!" 
wailed  Mary  Lou. 

"Don't,  darling!"  Susan  implored  her. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  found 
herself  really  busy,  and,  under  all  sorrow  and  pain, 
there  was  in  these  sad  hours  for  Susan  a  genuine  satis- 
faction and  pleasure.  Capable,  tender,  quiet,  she  went 
about  tirelessly,  answering  the  telephone,  seeing  to  the 
nurse's  comfort,  brewing  coffee  for  Mary  Lou,  carry- 
ing a  cup  of  hot  soup  to  Virginia.  Susan,  slim,  sym- 
pathetic, was  always  on  hand, — with  clean  sheets  on 
her  arm  or  with  hot  water  for  the  nurse  or  with  a 
message  for  the  doctor.  She  penciled  a  little  list  for 
Billy  to  carry  to  the  drugstore,  she  made  Miss  Foster's 
bed  in  the  room  adjoining  Auntie's,  she  hunted  up  the 
fresh  nightgown  that  was  slipped  over  her  aunt's  head, 
put  the  room  in  order;  hanging  up  the  limp  garments 
with  a  strange  sense  that  it  would  be  long  before 
Auntie's  hand  touched  them  again. 

"And  now,  why  don't  you  go  to  bed,  Jinny  darling?" 
she  asked,  coming  in  at  midnight  to  the  room  where 
her  cousins  were  grouped  in  mournful  silence.  But 
Billy's  foot  touched  hers  with  a  significant  pressure,  and 
Susan  sat  down,  rather  frightened,  and  said  no  more 
of  anyone's  going  to  bed. 


410  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Two  long  hours  followed.  They  were  sitting  in  a 
large  front  bedroom  that  had  been  made  ready  for 
boarders,  but  looked  inexpressibly  grim  and  cheerless, 
with  its  empty  mantel  and  blank,  marble-topped  bureau. 
Georgie  cried  constantly  and  silently,  Virginia's  lips 
moved,  Mary  Lou  alone  persisted  that  Ma  would  be 
herself  again  in  three  days. 

Susan,  sitting  and  staring  at  the  flaring  gas-lights, 
began  to  feel  that  in  the  midst  of  life  was  death,  in- 
deed, and  that  the  term  of  human  existence  is  as  brief 
as  a  dream.  "We  will  all  have  to  die  too,"  she  said, 
awesomely  to  herself,  her  eyes  traveling  about  the 
circle  of  faces. 

At  two  o'clock  Miss  Foster  summoned  them  and 
they  went  into  the  invalid's  room;  to  Susan  it  was  all 
unreal  and  unconvincing.  The  figure  in  the  bed,  the 
purple  face,  the  group  of  sobbing  watchers.  No  word 
was  said:  the  moments  slipped  by.  Her  eyes  were 
wandering  when  Miss  Foster  suddenly  touched  her 
aunt's  hand. 

A  heavy,  grating  breath — a  silence — Susan's  eyes 
met  Billy's  in  terror — but  there  was  another  breath — 
and  another — and  another  silence. 

Silence. 

Miss  Foster,  who  had  been  bending  over  her  pa- 
tient, straightened  up,  lowered  the  gray  head  gently 
into  the  pillow. 

"Gone,"  said  Dr.  O'Connor,  very  low,  and  at  the 
word  a  wild  protest  of  grief  broke  out.  Susan  neither 
cried  nor  spoke;  it  was  all  too  unreal  for  tears,  for 
emotion  of  any  kind. 

"You  stay,"  said  Miss  Foster  when  she  presently 
banished  the  others.  Susan,  surprised,  complied. 

"Sorry  to  ask  you  to  help  me,"  said  Miss  Foster 
then  brisky,  "but  I  can't  do  this  alone.  They'll  want 
to  be  coming  back  here,  and  we  must  be  ready  for 
them.  I  wonder  if  you  could  fix  her  hair  like  she 
wore  it,  and  I'll  have  to  get  her  teeth " 

"Her  what?"  asked  Susan. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  411 

"Her  teeth,  dear.  Do  you  know  where  she  kept 
them?" 

Appalled,  sickened,  Susan  watched  the  other 
woman's  easy  manipulation  of  what  had  been  a  loving, 
breathing  woman  only  a  few  hours  before.  But  she 
presently  did  her  own  share  bravely  and  steadily, 
brushing  and  coiling  the  gray-brown  locks  as  she  had 
often  seen  her  aunt  coil  them.  Lying  in  bed,  a  small 
girl  supposedly  asleep,  years  before,  she  had  seen  these 
pins  placed  so — and  so — seen  this  short  end  tucked 
under,  this  twist  skilfully  puffed. 

This  was  not  Auntie.  So  wholly  had  the  soul  fled 
that  Susan  could  feel  sure  that  Auntie — somewhere, 
was  already  too  infinitely  wise  to  resent  this  fussing 
little  stranger  and  her  ministrations.  A  curious  lack 
of  emotion  in  herself  astonished  her.  She  longed  to 
grieve,  as  the  others  did,  blamed  herself  that  she  ccmld 
not.  But  before  she  left  the  room  she  put  her  lips 
to  her  aunt's  forehead. 

"You  were  always  good  to  me !"  Susan  whispered. 

"I  guess  she  was  always  good  to  everyone,"  said 
the  little  nurse,  pinning  a  clever  arrangement  of  sheets 
firmly,  "she  has  a  grand  face!"  The  room  was  bright 
and  orderly  now,  Susan  flung  pillows  and  blankets  into 
the  big  closet,  hung  her  aunt's  white  knitted  shawl  on 
a  hook. 

"You're  a  dear  good  little  girl,  that's  what  you  are  I" 
said  Miss  Foster,  as  they  went  out. 

Susan  stepped  into  her  new  role  with  characteristic 
vigor.  She  was  too  much  absorbed  in  it  to  be  very 
sorry  that  her  aunt  was  dead.  Everybody  praised  her, 
and  a  hundred  times  a  day  her  cousins  said  truthfully 
that  they  could  not  see  how  these  dreadful  days  would 
have  been  endurable  at  all  without  Susan.  Susan  could 
sit  up  all  night,  and  yet  be  ready  to  brightly  dispense 
hot  coffee  at  seven  o'clock,  could  send  telegrams,  could 
talk  to  the  men  from  Simpson  and  Wright's,  could 
go  downtown  with  Billy  to  select  plain  black  hats  and 
simple  mourning,  could  meet  callers,  could  answer  the 


412  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

telephone,  could  return  a  reassuring  "That's  all  at- 
tended to,  dear,"  to  Mary  Lou's  distracted  "I  haven't 
given  one  thought  to  dinner  1"  and  then,  when  evening 
came  again,  could  quietly  settle  herself  in  a  big  chair, 
between  Billy  and  Dr.  O'Connor,  for  another  vigil. 

"Never  a  thought  for  her  own  grief!"  said  Georgie, 
to  a  caller.  Susan  felt  a  little  prick  of  guilt.  She  was 
too  busy  and  too  absorbed  to  feel  any  grief.  And 
presently  it  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  Auntie  knew 
it,  and  understood.  Perhaps  there  was  no  merit  in 
mere  grieving.  "But  I  wish  I  had  been  better  to  her 
while  she  was  here!"  thought  Susan  more  than  once. 
She  saw  her  aunt  in  a  new  light  through  the  eyes 
of  the  callers  who  came,  a  long,  silent  stream,  to  pay 
their  last  respect  to  Louisianna  Ralston.  All  the  old 
southern  families  of  the  city  were  represented  there; 
the  Chamberlains  and  the  Lloyds,  the  Duvals  and  Fair- 
faxes and  Carters.  Old,  old  ladies  came,  stout  matrons 
who  spoke  of  the  dead  woman  as  "Lou,"  rosy-faced 
old  men.  Some  of  them  Susan  had  never  seen  before. 

To  all  of  them  she  listened  with  her  new  pretty 
deference  and  dignity.  She  heard  of  her  aunt's  child- 
hood, before  the  war,  "Yo'  dea'  auntie  and  my  Fanny 
went  to  they'  first  ball  togethah,"  said  one  very  old 
lady.  "Lou  was  the  belle  of  all  us  girls,"  contributed 
the  same  Fanny,  now  stout  and  sixty,  with  a  smile. 
"I  was  a  year  or  two  younger,  and,  my  laws,  how  I 
used  to  envy  Miss  Louis'anna  Ralston,  flirtin'  and 
laughin'  with  all  her  beaux!" 

Susan  grew  used  to  hearing  her  aunt  spoken  of  as 
"your  cousin,"  "your  mother,"  even  "your  sister," — 
her  own  relationship  puzzled  some  of  Mrs.  Lancaster's 
old  friends.  But  they  never  failed  to  say  that  Susan 
was  "a  dear,  sweet  girl — she  must  have  been  proud 
of  you!" 

She  heard  sometimes  of  her  own  mother  too.  Some 
large  woman,  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  might 
suddenly  seize  upon  Susan,  with: 

"Look  here,  Robert,  this  is  Sue  Rose's  girl — Major 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Calhoun  was  one  of  your  Mama's  great  admirers, 
dear!" 

Or  some  old  lady,  departing,  would  kiss  her  with 
a  whispered  "Knew  your  mother  like  my  own  daugh- 
ter,— come  and  see  me!" 

They  had  all  been  young  and  gay  and  sheltered 
together,  Susan  thought,  just  half  a  century  ago.  Now 
some  came  in  widow's  black,  and  some  with  shabby 
gloves  and  worn  shoes,  and  some  rustled  up  from 
carriages,  and  patronized  Mary  Lou,  and  told  Susan 
that  "poor  Lou"  never  seemed  to  be  very  successful! 

"I  sometimes  think  that  it  would  be  worth  any  effort 
in  the  first  forty  years  of  your  life,  to  feel  sure  that 
you  would  at  least  not  be  an  object  of  pity  for  the 
last  twenty!"  said  Susan,  upon  whom  these  callers, 
with  the  contrasts  they  presented,  had  had  a  profound 
effect. 

It  was  during  an  all-night  vigil,  in  the  room  next 
to  the  one  in  which  the  dead  woman  lay.  Dr.  O'Con- 
nor lay  asleep  on  a  couch,  Susan  and  Billy  were  in 
deep  chairs.  The  room  was  very  cold,  and  the  girl 
had  a  big  wrapper  over  her  black  dress.  Billy  had 
wrapped  himself  in  an  Indian  blanket,  and  put  his  feet 
comfortably  up  on  a  chair. 

"You  bet  your  life  it  would  be!"  said  Billy  yawn- 
ing. "That's  what  I  tell  the  boys,  over  at  the  works," 
he  went  on,  with  awakening  interest,  "get  into  some- 
thing, cut  out  booze  and  theaters  and  graphophones 
now, — don't  care  what  your  neighbors  think  of  you 
now,  but  mind  your  own  affairs,  stick  to  your  busi- 
ness, let  everything  else  go,  and  then,  some  day,  settle 
down  with  a  nice  little  lump  of  stock,  or  a  couple  of 
flats,  or  a  little  plant  of  your  own,  and  snap  your 
fingers  at  everything!" 

"You  know  I've  been  thinking,"  Susan  said  slowly, 
"For  all  the  wise  people  that  have  ever  lived,  and  all 
the  goodness  everywhere,  we  go  through  life  like  ships 
with  sealed  orders.  Now  all  these  friends  of  Auntie's, 
they  thought  she  made  a  brilliant  match  when  she 


414  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

married  Uncle  George.  But  she  had  no  idea  of  man- 
agement, and  no  training,  and  here  she  is,  dying  at 
sixty-three,  leaving  Jinny  and  Mary  Lou  practically 
helpless,  and  nothing  but  a  lot  of  debts!  For  twenty 
years  she's  just  been  drifting  and  drifting, — it's  only 
a  chance  that  Alfie  pulled  out  of  it,  and  that  Georgie 
really  did  pretty  well.  Now,  with  Mrs.  Carroll  some- 
how it's  so  different.  You  know  that,  before  she's 
old,  she's  going  to  own  her  little  house  and  garden, 
she  knows  where  she  stands.  She's  worked  her  finan- 
cial problem  out  on  paper,  she  says  'I'm  a  little  behind 
this  month,  because  of  Jim's  dentist.  But  there  are 
five  Saturdays  in  January,  and  I'll  catch  up  then!'' 

"She's  exceptional,  though,"  he  asserted. 

"Yes,  but  a  training  like  that  needn't  be  exceptional! 
It  seems  so  strange  that  the  best  thing  that  school 
can  give  us  is  algebra  and  Caesar's  Commentaries," 
Susan  pursued  thoughtfully.  "When  there's  so  much 
else  we  don't  know !  Just  to  show  you  one  thing,  Billy, 
— when  I  first  began  to  go  to  the  Carrolls,  I  noticed 
that  they  never  had  to  fuss  with  the  building  of  a  fire 
in  the  kitchen  stove.  When  a  meal  was  over,  Mrs. 
Carroll  opened  the  dampers,  scattered  a  little  wet  coal 
on  the  top,  and  forgot  about  it  until  the  next  meal, 
or  even  overnight.  She  could  start  it  up  in  two  sec- 
onds, with  no  dirt  or  fuss,  whenever  she  wanted  to. 
Think  what  that  means,  getting  breakfast!  Now,  ever 
since  I  was  a  little  girl,  we've  built  a  separate  fire 
for  each  meal,  in  this  house.  Nobody  ever  knew  any 
better.  You  hear  chopping  of  kindlings,  and  scratching 
of  matches,  and  poor  Mary  Lou  saying  that  it  isn't 
going  to  burn,  and  doing  it  all  over 

"Gosh,  yes!"  he  said  laughing  at  the  familiar  pic- 
ture. "Mary  Lou  always  says  that  she  has  no  luck 
with  fires!" 

"Billy,"  Susan  stated  solemnly,  "sometimes  I  don't 
believe  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  luck!" 

"Sometimes  you  don't — why,  Lord,  of  course  there 
isn't!" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  415 

"Oh,  Billy,"  Susan's  eyes  widened  childishly,  "don't 
you  honestly  think  so?" 

"No,  I  don't!"  He  smiled,  with  the  bashfulness 
that  was  always  noticeable  when  he  spoke  intimately 
of  himself  or  his  own  ideas.  "If  you  get  a  big  enough 
perspective  of  things,  Sue,"  he  said,  "everybody  has 
the  same  chance.  You  to-day,  and  I  to-morrow,  and 
somebody  else  the  ,day  after  that!  Now,"  he  cau- 
tiously lowered  his  voice,  "in  this  house  you've  heard 
the  Civil  War  spoken  of  as  'bad  luck'  and  Alf's  drink- 
ing spoken  of  as  'bad  luck'  " 

Susan  dimpled,  nodded  thoughtfully. 

—And  if  Phil  Carroll  hadn't  been  whipped  and 
bullied  and  coaxed  and  amused  and  praised  for  the 
past  six  or  seven  years,  and  Anna  pushed  into  a  job, 
and  Jim  and  Betsy  ruled  with  an  iron  hand,  you  might 
hear  Mrs.  Carroll  talking  about  'bad  luck,'  too !" 

"Well,  one  thing,"  said  Susan  firmly,  "we'll  do  very 
differently  from  now  on." 

"You  girls,  you  mean,"  he  said. 

"Jinny  and  Mary  Lou  and  I.  I  think  we'll  keep 
this  place  going,  Billy." 

Billy  scowled. 

"I  think  you're  making  a  big  mistake,  if  you  do. 
There's  no  money  in  it.  The  house  is  heavily  mort- 
gaged, half  the  rooms  are  empty." 

"We'll  fill  the  house,  then.  It's  the  only  thing  we 
can  do,  Billy.  And  I've  got  plenty  of  plans,"  said 
Susan  vivaciously.  "I'm  going  to  market  myself,  every 
morning.  I'm  going  to  do  at  least  half  the  cooking. 
I'm  going  to  borrow  about  three  hundred  dollars " 

"I'll  lend  you  all  you  want,"  he  said. 

"Well,  you're  a  darling!  But  I  don't  mean  a  gift, 
I  mean  at  interest,"  Susan  assured  him.  "I'm  going 
to  buy  china  and  linen,  and  raise  our  rates.  For  two 
years  I'm  not  going  out  of  this  house,  except  on  busi- 
ness. You'll  see !" 

He  stared  at  her  for  so  long  a  time  that  Susan' — even 
with  Billy! — became  somewhat  embarrassed. 


416  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"But  it  seems  a  shame  to  tie  you  down  to  an  enter- 
prise like  this,  Sue,"  he  said  finally. 

"No,"  she  said,  after  a  short  silence,  turning  upon 
him  a  very  bright  smile.  "I've  made  a  pretty  general 
failure  of  my  own  happiness,  Bill.  I've  shown  that  I'm 
a  pretty  weak  sort.  You  know  what  I  was  willing 
to  do " 

"Now  you're  talking  like  a  damn  fool!"  growled 
Billy. 

"No,  I'm  not!  You  may  be  as  decent  as  you  please 
about  it,  Billy,"  said  Susan  with  scarlet  cheeks,  "but 
— a  thing  like  that  will  keep  me  from  ever  marrying, 
you  know!  Well.  So  I'm  really  going  to  work,  right 
here  and  now.  Mrs.  Carroll  says  that  service  is  the 
secret  of  happiness,  I'm  going  to  try  it.  Life  is  pretty 
short,  anyway, — doesn't  a  time  like  this  make  it  seem 
so ! — and  I  don't  know  that  it  makes  very  much  differ- 
ence whether  one's  happy  or  not!" 

"Well,  go  ahead  and  good  luck  to  you!"  said  Billy, 
"but  don't  talk  rot  about  not  marrying  and  not  being 
happy!" 

Presently  he  dozed  in  his  chair,  and  Susan  sat  star- 
ing wide-eyed  before  her,  but  seeing  nothing  of  the 
dimly  lighted  room,  the  old  steel-engravings  on  the 
walls,  the  blotched  mirror  above  the  empty  grate.  Long 
thoughts  went  through  her  mind,  a  hazy  drift  of  plans 
and  resolutions,  a  hazy  wonder  as  to  what  Stephen 
Bocqueraz  was  doing  to-night — what  Kenneth  Saunders 
was  doing.  Perhaps  they  would  some  day  hear  of  her 
as  a  busy  and  prosperous  boarding-house  keeper;  per- 
haps, taking  a  hard-earned  holiday  in  Europe,  twenty 
years  from  now,  Susan  would  meet  one  of  them  again. 

She  got  up,  and  went  noiselessly  into  the  hall  to  look 
at  the  clock.  Just  two.  Susan  went  into  the  front 
room,  to  say  her  prayers  in  the  presence  of  the  dead. 

The  big  dim  room  was  filled  with  flowers,  their  blos- 
soms dull  blots  of  light  in  the  gloom,  their  fragrance, 
and  the  smell  of  wet  leaves,  heavy  on  the  air.  One 
window  was  raised  an  inch  or  two,  a  little  current  of  air 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  417 

stirred  the  curtain.  Candles  burned  steadily,  with  a 
little  sucking  noise;  a  clock  ticked;  there  was  no  other 
sound. 

Susan  stood,  motionless  herself,  looking  soberly 
down  upon  the  quiet  face  of  the  dead.  Some  new  dig- 
nity had  touched  the  smooth  forehead,  and  the  closed 
eyes,  a  little  inscrutable  smile  hovered  over  the  sweetr 
firmly  closed  mouth.  Susan's  eyes  moved  from  the  face 
to  the  locked  ivory  fingers,  lying  so  lightly, — yet  with 
how  terrible  a  weight! — upon  spotless  white  satin  and 
lace.  Virginia  had  put  the  ivory-bound  prayer-book 
and  the  lilies-of-the-valley  into  that  quiet  clasp,  Georgie, 
holding  back  her  tears,  had  laid  at  the  coffin's  foot  the 
violets  tied  with  a  lavender  ribbon  that  bore  the  legend, 
"From  the  Grandchildren." 

Flowers — flowers — flowers  everywhere.  And  auntie 
had  gone  without  them  for  so  many  years ! 

"What  a  funny  world  it  is,"  thought  Susan,  smiling 
at  the  still,  wise  face  as  if  she  and  her  aunt  might 
still  share  in  amusement.  She  thought  of  her  own 
pose,  "never  gives  a  thought  to  her  own  grief!"  every- 
one said.  She  thought  of  Virginia's  passionate  and  dra- 
matic protest,  "Ma  carried  this  book  when  she  was 
married,  she  shall  have  it  now!"  and  of  Mary  Lou's 
wail,  "Oh,  that  I  should  live  to  see  the  day!"  And  she 
remembered  Georgie's  care  in  placing  the  lettered  rib- 
bon where  it  must  be  seen  by  everyone  who  came  in  to 
look  for  the  last  time  at  the  dead. 

"Are  we  all  actors?  Isn't  anything  real?"  she  won- 
dered. 

Yet  the  grief  was  real  enough,  after  all.  There  was 
no  sham  in  Mary  Lou's  faint,  after  the  funeral,  and 
Virginia,  drooping  about  the  desolate  house,  looked 
shockingly  pinched  and  thin.  There  was  a  family  coun- 
cil in  a  day  or  two,  and  it  was  at  this  time  that  Susan 
meant  to  suggest  that  the  boarding-house  be  carried  on 
between  them  all. 

Alfred  and  his  wife,  and  Georgie  and  the  doctor 
came  to  the  house  for  this  talk;  Billy  had  been  staying 


418  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

there,  and  Mr.  Ferd  Eastman,  in  answer  to  a  tele- 
gram, had  come  down  for  the  funeral  and  was  still  in 
the  city. 

They  gathered,  a  sober,  black-dressed  group,  in  the 
cold  and  dreary  parlor,  Ferd  Eastman  looking  almost 
indecorously  cheerful  and  rosy,  in  his  checked  suit  and 
with  his  big  diamond  ring  glittering  on  his  fat  hand. 
There  was  no  will  to  read,  but  Billy  had  ascertained 
what  none  of  the  sisters  knew,  the  exact  figures  of  the 
mortgage,  the  value  of  the  contents  of  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster's locked  tin  box,  the  size  and  number  of  various 
outstanding  bills.  He  spread  a  great  number  of  papers 
out  before  him  on  a  small  table ;  Alfred,  who  appeared 
to  be  sleepy,  after  the  strain  of  the  past  week,  yawned, 
started  up  blinking,  attempted  to  take  an  intelligent 
interest  in  the  conversation;  Georgie,  thinking  of  her 
nursing  baby,  was  eager  to  hurry  everything  through. 

"Now,  about  you  girls,"  said  Billy.  "Sue  feels  that 
you  might  make  a  good  thing  of  it  if  you  stayed  on 
here.  What  do  you  think?" 

"Well,  Billy — well,  Ferd "  Everyone  turned 

to  look  at  Mary  Lou,,  who  was  stammering  and  blush- 
ing in  a  most  peculiar  way.  Mr.  Eastman  put  his 
arm  about  her.  Part  of  the  truth  flashed  on  Susan. 

"You're  going  to  be  married!"  she  gasped.  But 
this  was  the  moment  for  which  Ferd  had  been  waiting. 

"We  are  married,  good  people,"  he  said  buoyantly. 
"This  young  lady  and  I  gave  you  all  the  slip  two  weeks 
ago!" 

Susan  rushed  to  kiss  the  bride,  but  upon  Virginia's 
bursting  into  hysterical  tears,  and  Georgie  turning  faint, 
Mary  Lou  very  sensibly  set  about  restoring  her  sisters' 
composure,  and,  even  on  this  occasion,  took  a  secondary 
part. 

"Perhaps  you  had  some  reason "  said  Georgie,, 

faintly,  turning  reproachful  eyes  upon  the  newly  wedded 
pair. 

"But,  with  poor  Ma  just  gone!"  Virginia  burst  into 
tears  again. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  419 

"Ma  knew,"  sobbed  Mary  Lou,  quite  overcome. 

"Ferd — Ferd "  she  began  with  difficulty,  "didn't 

want  to  wait,  and  I  wouldn't, — so  soon  after  poor 
Grace !"  Grace  had  been  the  first  wife.  "And  so,  just 
before  Ma's  birthday,  he  took  us  to  lunch — we  went 
to  Swains " 

"I  remember  the  day!"  said  Virginia,  in  solemn 
affirmation. 

"And  we  were  quietly  married  afterward,"  said 
Ferd,  himself,  soothingly,  his  arm  about  his  wife,  "and 
Mary  Lou's  dear  mother  was  very  happy  about  it. 
Don't  cry,  dear " 

Susan  had  disliked  the  man  once,  but  she  could  find 
no  fault  with  his  tender  solicitude  for  the  long-neglected 
Mary  Lou.  And  when  the  first  crying  and  exclaiming 
were  over,  there  was  a  very  practical  satisfaction  in 
the  thought  of  Mary  Lou  as  a  prosperous  man's  wife, 
and  Virginia  provided  for,  for  a  time  at  least.  Susan 
seemed  to  feel  fetters  slipping  away  from  her  at  every 
second. 

Mr.  Eastman  took  them  all  to  lunch,  at  a  modest 
table  d'hote  in  the  neighborhood,  tipped  the  waiter 
munificently,  asked  in  an  aside  for  a  special  wine,  which 
was  of  course  not  forthcoming.  Susan  enjoyed  the 
affair  with  a  little  of  her  old  spirit,  and  kept  them  all 
talking  and  friendly.  Georgie,  perhaps  a  little  dashed 
by  Mary  Lou's  recently  acquired  state,  told  Susan  in  a 
significant  aside,  as  a  doctor's  wife,  that  it  was  very 
improbable  that  Mary  Lou,  at  her  age,  would  have 
children;  "seems  such  a  pity!"  said  Georgie,  shrugging. 
Virginia,  to  her  new  brother-in-law's  cheerful  promise 
to  find  her  a  good  husband  within  the  year,  responded, 
with  a  little  resentful  dignity,  "It  seems  a  little  soon, 
to  me,  to  be  joking,  Ferd!" 

But  on  the  whole  it  was  a  very  harmonious  meal. 
The  Eastmans  were  to  leave  the  next  day  for  a  be- 
lated honeymoon;  to  Susan  and  Virginia  and  Billy 
would  fall  the  work  of  closing  up  the  Fulton  Street 
house. 


420  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"And  what  about  you,  Sue?"  asked  Billy,  as  they 
were  walking  home  that  afternoon. 

"I'm  going  to  New  York,  Bill,"  she  answered.  And, 
with  a  memory  of  the  times  she  had  told  him  that 
before,  she  turned  to  him  a  sudden  smile.  " — But  I 
mean  it  this  time  I"  said  Susan  cheerfully.  "I  went  to 
see  Miss  Toland,  of  the  Alexander  Toland  Settlement 
House,  a  few  weeks  ago,  about  working  there.  She 
told  me  frankly  that  they  have  all  they  need  of  un- 
trained help.  But  she  said,  'Miss  Brown,  if  you  could 
take  a  year's  course  in  New  York,  you'd  be  a  treasure !' 
And  so  I'm  going  to  borrow  the  money  from  Ferd, 
Bill.  I  hate  to  do  it,  but  I'm  going  to.  And  the  first 
thing  you  know  I'll  be  in  the  Potrero,  right  near  your 
beloved  Iron  Works,  teaching  the  infants  of  that  re- 
gion how  to  make  buttonholes  and  cook  chuck  steak!" 

"How  much  money  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  after 
a  moment's  silence. 

"Three  hundred."  f 

"Three  hundred!     The  fare  is  one  hundred!" 

"I  know  it.  But  I'm  going  to  work  my  way  through 
the  course,  Bill,  even  if  I  have  to  go  out  as  a  nurse- 
girl,  and  study  at  night." 

Billy  said  nothing  for  awhile.  But  before  they 
parted  he  went  back  to  the  subject. 

"I'll  let  you  have  the  three  hundred,  Sue,  or  five 
hundred,  if  you  like.  Borrow  it  from  me,  you  know 
me  a  good  deal  better  than  you  do  Ferd  Eastman !" 

The  next  day  the  work  of  demolishing  the  boarding- 
house  began.  Susan  and  Virginia  lived  with  Georgie 
for  these  days,  but  lunched  in  the  confusion  of  the  old 
home.  It  seemed  strange,  and  vaguely  sad,  to  see  the 
long-crowded  rooms  empty  and  bare,  with  winter  sun- 
light falling  in  clear  sharp  lines  across  the  dusty,  un- 
carpeted  floors.  A  hundred  old  scars  and  stains  showed 
on  the  denuded  walls;  there  were  fresher  squares  on 
the  dark,  faded  old  papers,  where  the  pictures  had 
been  hung;  Susan  recognized  the  outline  of  Mary 
Lord's  mirror,  and  Mrs.  Parker's  crucifix.  The  kitchen 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  421 

was  cold  and  desolate,  a  pool  of  water  on  the  cold 
stove,  a  smooth  thin  cake  of  yellow  soap  in  a  thick 
saucer,  on  the  sink,  a  drift  of  newspapers  on  the  floor, 
and  old  brooms  assembled  in  a  corner. 

More  than  the  mortgage,  the  forced  sale  of  the  old 
house  had  brought  only  a  few  hundreds  of  dollars.  It 
was  to  be  torn  down  at  once,  and  Susan  felt  a  curious 
stirring  of  sadness  as  she  went  through  the  strange  yet 
familiar  rooms  for  the  last  time. 

"Lord,  how  familiar  it  all  is!"  said  Billy,  "the  block 
and  the  bakery!  I  can  remember  the  first  time  I 
saw  it." 

The  locked  house  was  behind  them,  they  had  come 
down  the  street  steps,  and  turned  for  a  last  look  at 
the  blank  windows. 

"I  remember  coming  here  after  my  father  died,'* 
Susan  said.  "You  gave  me  a  little  cologne  bottle  filled 
with  water,  and  one  of  those  spools  that  one  braids 
worsted  through,  do  you  remember?" 

"Do  you  remember  Miss  Fish, — the  old  girl  whose 
canary  we  hit  with  a  ball?  And  the  second-hand  type- 
writer we  were  always  saving  up  for?" 

"And  the  day  we  marked  up  the  steps  with  challc 
and  Auntie  sent  us  out  with  wet  rags?" 

"Lord — Lord!"  They  were  both  smiling  as  they 
walked  away. 

"Shall  you  go  to  Nevada  City  with  the  Eastmans, 
Sue?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  I'll  stay  with  Georgie  for  a 
week,  and  get  things  straightened  out." 

"Well,  suppose  we  go  off  and  have  dinner  some- 
where, to-morrow?" 

"Oh,  I'd  love  it!  It's  terribly  gloomy  at  Georgie's. 
But  I'm  going  over  to  see  the  Carrolls  to-morrow,  and 
they  may  want  to  keep  me " 

"They  won't!"  said  Billy  grimly. 

"Won't?"  Susan  echoed,  astonished. 

"No,"  Billy  said  with  a  sigh.  "Mrs.  Carroll's  been 
been  awfully  queer  since — since  Jo,  you  know " 


422  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Why,  Bill,  she  was  so  wonderful!" 

"Just  at  first,  yes.  But  she's  gone  into  a  sort  of 
melancholia,  now,  Phil  was  telling  me  about  it." 

"But  that  doesn't  sound  a  bit  like  her,"  Susan  said, 
worriedly. 

"No,  does  it?  But  go  over  and  see  them  anyway, 
it'll  do  them  all  good.  Well — look  your  last  at  the  old 
block,  Sue!" 

Susan  got  on  the  car,  leaning  back  for  a  long,  good- 
bye look  at  the  shabby  block,  duller  than  ever  in  the 
grimy  winter  light,  and  at  the  dirt  and  papers  and  chaff 
drifting  up  against  the  railings,  and  at  the  bakery  win- 
dow, with  its  pies  and  bread  and  Nottingham  lace  cur- 
tains. Fulton  Street  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  next  day,  in  a  whirling  rainstorm,  well  protected 
by  a  trim  raincoat,  overshoes,  and  a  close-fitting  little 
hat  about  which  spirals  of  bright  hair  clung  in  a  halo, 
Susan  crossed  the  ferry  and  climbed  up  the  long  stairs 
that  rise  through  the  very  heart  of  Sausalito.  The  sky 
was  gray,  the  bay  beaten  level  by  the  rain,  and  the  wet 
gardens  that  Susan  passed  were  dreary  and  bare. 
Twisting  oak  trees  gave  vistas  of  wind-whipped  vines, 
and  of  the  dark  and  angry  water;  the  steps  she  mount- 
ed ran  a  shallow  stream. 

The  Carrolls'  garden  was  neglected  and  desolate, 
chrysanthemum  stalks  lay  across  the  wet  flagging  of  the 
path,  and  wind  screamed  about  the  house.  Susan's  first 
knock  was  lost  in  a  general  creaking  and  banging,  but 
a  second  brought  Betsey,  grave  and  tired-looking,  to 
the  door. 

"Oh,  hello,  Sue,"  said  Betsey  apathetically.  "Don't 
go  in  there,  it's  so  cold,"  she  said,  leading  her  caller 
past  the  closed  door  of  the  sitting-room.  "This  hall 
is  so  dark  that  we  ought  to  keep  a  light  here,"  added 
Betsey  fretfully,  as  they  stumbled  along.  "Come  out 
into  the  dining-room,  Sue,  or  into  the  kitchen.  I  was 
trying  to  get  a  fire  started.  But  Jim  never  brings  up 
enough  wood!  He'll  talk  about  it,  and  talk  about  it, 
but  when  you  want  it  I  notice  it's  never  there !" 

Everywhere  were  dust  and  disorder  and  evidences  of 
neglect.  Susan  hardly  recognized  the  dining-room;  it 
was  unaired,  yet  chilly;  a  tall,  milk-stained  glass,  and 
some  crumbs  on  the  green  cloth,  showed  where  little 
Betsey  had  had  a  lonely  luncheon;  there  were  paper 
bags  on  the  sideboard  and  a  litter  of  newspapers  on  a 
chair.  Nothing  suggested  the  old,  exquisite  order. 

423 


424  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

The  kitchen  was  even  more  desolate,  as  it  had  been 
more  inviting  before.  There  were  ashes  sifting  out 
of  the  stove,  rings  of  soot  and  grease  on  the  table-top, 
more  soot,  and  the  prints  of  muddy  boots  on  the  floor. 
Milk  had  soured  in  the  bottles,  odds  and  ends  of  food 
were  everywhere,  Betsey's  book  was  open  on  the  table, 
propped  against  the  streaked  and  stained  coffee-pot. 

"Your  mother's  ill?"  asked  Susan.  She  could  think 
of  no  other  explanation. 

"Doesn't  this  kitchen  look  awful?"  said  Betsey,  re- 
suming operations  with  books  and  newspapers  at  the 
range.  "No,  Mother's  all  right.  I'm  going  to  take  her 
up  some  tea.  Don't  you  touch  those  things,  Sue.  Don't 
you  bother  1" 

"Has  she  been  in  bed?"  demanded  Susan. 

"No,  she  gets  up  every  day  now,"  Betsey  said  im- 
patiently. "But  she  won't  come  downstairs  1" 

"Won't!     But  why  not!"  gasped  Susan. 

"She "  Betsey  glanced  cautiously  toward  the 

hall  door.  "She  hasn't  come  down  at  all,"  she  said, 
softly.  "Not — since !" 

"What  does  Anna  say?"  Susan  asked  aghast. 

"Anna  comes  home  every  Saturday,  and  she  and 
Phil  talk  to  Mother,"  the  little  sister  said,  "but  so 
far  it's  not  done  any  good !  I  go  up  two  or  three  times 
a  day,  but  she  won't  talk  to  me. — Sue,  ought  this  have 
more  paper?" 

The  clumsy,  roughened  little  hands,  the  sad,  patient 
little  voice  and  the  substitution  of  this  weary  little 
woman  for  the  once-radiant  and  noisy  Betsey  sent  a 
pang  to  Susan's  heart. 

"Well,  you  poor  little  old  darling,  you!"  she  burst 
out,  pitifully.  "Do  you  mean  that  you've  been  facing 
this  for  a  month?  Betsey — it's  too  dreadful — you  dear 
little  old  heroic  scrap!" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right!"  said  Betsey,  beginning  to  trem- 
ble. She  placed  a  piece  or  two  of  kindling,  fumbled  for 
a  match,  and  turned  abruptly  and  went  to  a  window, 
catching  her  apron  to  her  eyes.  "I'm  all  right — don't 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  425 

mind  me  I"  sobbed  Betsey.  "But  sometimes  I  think  I'll 
go  crazy!  Mother  doesn't  love  me  any  more,  and 
everybody  cried  all  Thanksgiving  Day,  and  I  loved  Jo 
more  than  they  think  I  did — they  think  I'm  too  young 
to  care — but  I  just  can't  bear  it!" 

"Well,  you  poor  little  darling  I"  Susan  was  crying 
herself,  but  she  put  her  arms  about  Betsey,  and  felt  the 
little  thing  cling  to  her,  as  they  cried  together. 

"And  now,  let  me  tackle  this!"  said  Susan,  when 
the  worst  of  the  storm  was  over  a  few  moments  later. 
She  started  the  fire  briskly,  and  tied  an  apron  over  her 
gown,  to  attack  the  disorder  of  the  table.  Betsey, 
breathing  hard,  but  visibly  cheered,  ran  to  and  fro  on 
eager  errands,  fell  upon  the  sink  with  a  vigorous  mop. 

Susan  presently  carried  a  tea-tray  upstairs,  and 
knocked  on  Mrs.  Carroll's  door.  "Come  in,"  said  the 
rich,  familiar  voice,  and  Susan  entered  the  dim,  chilly, 
orderly  room,  her  heart  beyond  any  words  daunted  and 
dismayed.  Mrs.  Carroll,  gaunt  and  white,  wrapped 
in  a  dark  wrapper,  and  idly  rocking  in  mid-afternoon, 
was  a  sight  to  strike  terror  to  a  stouter  heart  than 
Susan's. 

"Oh,  Susan?"  said  she.  She  said  no  more.  Susan 
knew  that  she  was  unwelcome. 

"Betsey  seems  to  have  her  hands  full,"  said  Susan 
gallantly,  "so  I  brought  up  your  tea." 

"Betts  needn't  have  bothered  herself  at  all,"  said 
Mrs.  Carroll.  Susan  felt  as  if  she  were  in  a  bad  dream, 
but  she  sat  down  and  resolutely  plunged  into  the  news 
of  Georgie  and  Virginia  and  Mary  Lou.  Mrs.  Car- 
roll listened  attentively,  and  asked  a  few  nervous  ques- 
tions; Susan  suspected  them  asked  merely  in  a  desper- 
ate effort  to  forestall  the  pause  that  might  mean  the 
mention  of  Josephine's  name. 

"And  what  are  your  own  plans,  Sue?"  she  presently 
asked. 

"Well,  New  York  presently,  I  think,"  Susan  said. 
^Bufr  I'm  with  Georgie  now, — unless,"  she  added  pret- 
tily,, "you'll  let  me  stay  here  for  a  day  or  two?" 


426  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Instant  alarm  darkened  the  sick  eyes. 

"Oh,  no,  dear !"  Mrs.  Carroll  said  quickly.  "You're 
a  sweet  child  to  think  of  it,  but  we  mustn't  impose  on 
you.  No,  indeed!  This  little  visit  is  all  we  must  ask 
now,  when  you  are  so  upset  and  busy " 

"I  have  nothing  at  all  to  do,"  Susan  said  eagerly. 
But  the  older  woman  interrupted  her  with  all  the  cun- 
ning of  a  sick  brain. 

"No,  dear.  Not  now!  Later  perhaps,  later  we 
should  all  love  it.  But  we're  better  left  to  ourselves 
now,  Sue!  Anna  shall  write  you " 

Susan  presently  left  the  room,  sorely  puzzled.  But, 
once  in  the  hall,  she  came  quickly  to  a  decision.  Phil's 
door  was  open,  his  bed  unaired,  an  odor  of  stale  cigar' 
ette  smoke  still  in  the  air.  In  Betsey's  room  the  win- 
dows were  wide  open,  the  curtains  streaming  in  wet  air, 
everything  in  disorder.  Susan  found  a  little  old  brown 
gingham  dress  of  Anna's,  and  put  it  on,  hung  up  her 
hat,  brushed  back  her  hair.  A  sudden  singing  seized 
her  heart  as  she  went  downstairs.  Serving  these  people 
whom  she  loved  filled  her  with  joy.  In  the  dining-room 
Betsey  looked  up  from  her  book.  Her  face  brightened. 

"Oh,  Sue — you're  going  to  stay  overnight!" 

"I'll  stay  as  long  as  you  need  me,"  said  Susan,  kiss- 
ing her. 

She  did  not  need  Betsey's  ecstatic  welcome ;  the  road 
was  clear  and  straight  before  her  now.  Preparing  the 
little  dinner  was  a  triumph;  reducing  the  kitchen  to 
something  like  its  old  order,  she  found  absorbing  and 
exhilarating.  "We'll  bake  to-morrow — we'll  clean  that 
thoroughly  to-morrow — we'll  make  out  a  list  of  necessi- 
ties to-morrow,"  said  Susan. 

She  insisted  upon  Philip's  changing  his  wet  shoes  for 
slippers  when  the  boys  came  home  at  six  o'clock;  she 
gave  little  Jim  a  sisterly  kiss. 

"Gosh,  this  is  something  like !"  said  Jim  simply,  eyes 
upon  the  hot  dinner  and  the  orderly  kitchen.  "This 
house  has  been  about  the  rottenest  place  ever,  for  I 
don't  know  how  long!" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  42T 

Philip  did  not  say  anything,  but  Susan  did  not  mis- 
read the  look  in  his  tired  eyes.  After  dinner  they  kept 
him  a  place  by  the  fire  while  he  went  up  to  see  his 
mother.  When  he  came  down  twenty  minutes  later  he 
seemed  troubled. 

"Mother  says  that  we're  imposing'on  you,  Sue,"  he 
said.  "She  made  me  promise  to  make  you  go  home  to- 
morrow. She  says  you've  had  enough  to  bear!" 

Betsey  sat  up  with  a  rueful  exclamation,  and  Jimmy 
grunted  a  disconsolate  "Gosh !"  but  Susan  only  smiled. 

"That's  only  part  of  her — trouble,  Phil,"  she  said, 
reassuringly.  And  presently  she  serenely  led  them  all 
upstairs.  "We've  got  to  make  those  beds,  Betts,"  said 
Susan. 

"Mother  may  hear  us,"  said  Betsey,  fearfully. 

"I  hope  she  will!"  Susan  said.  But,  if  she  did,  no 
sound  came  from  the  mother's  room.  After  awhile 
Susan  noticed  that  her  door,  which  had  been  ajar,  was 
shut  tight. 

She  lay  awake  late  that  night,  Betts'  tear-stained  but 
serene  little  face  close  to  her  shoulder,  Betts'  hand  still 
tight  in  hers.  The  wind  shook  the  casements,  and  the 
unwearied  storm  screamed  about  the  house.  Susan 
thought  of  the  woman  in  the  next  room,  wondered  if 
she  was  lying  awake,  too,  alone  with  sick  and  sorrow- 
ful memories  ? 

She  herself  fell  asleep  full  of  healthy  planning  for  to- 
morrow's meals  and  house-cleaning,  too  tired  and  con- 
tent for  dreams. 

Anna  came  quietly  home  on  the  next  Saturday  even- 
ing, to  find  the  little  group  just  ready  to  gather  about 
the  dinner-table.  A  fire  glowed  in  the  grate,  the  kitchen 
beyond  was  warm  and  clean  and  delightfully  odorous. 
She  said  very  little  then,  took  her  share,  with  obvious 
effort  at  first,  in  their  talk,  sat  behind  Betsey's  chair 
when  the  four  presently  were  coaxed  by  Jim  into  a 
game  of  "Hearts,"  and  advised  her  little  sister  how 
to  avoid  the  black  queen. 

But  later,  just  before  they  went  upstairs,  when  they 


428  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

were  all  grouped  about  the  last  of  the  fire,  she  laid 
her  hands  on  Susan's  shoulders,  and  stood  Susan  off,, 
to  look  at  her  fairly. 

"No  words  for  it,  Sue,"  said  Anna  steadily. 

"Ah,  don't,  Nance "  Susan  began.  But  in  an- 
other instant  they  were  in  each  other's  arms,  and  cry- 
ing, and  much  later  that  evening,  after  a  long  talk, 
Betsey  confided  to  Susan  that  it  was  the  first  time  Anna 
had  cried. 

"She  told  me  that  when  she  got  home,  and  saw  the 
way  that  you  have  changed  things,"  confided  Betsey, 
"she  began  to  think  for  the  first  time  that  we  might — 
might  get  through  this,  you  know!" 

Wonderful  days  for  Susan  followed,  with  every  hour 
brimming  full  of  working  and  planning.  She  was  the 
first  one  up  in  the  morning,  the  last  one  in  bed  at 
night,  hers  was  the  voice  that  made  the  last  decision, 
and  hers  the  hands  for  which  the  most  critical  of  the 
household  tasks  were  reserved.  Always  conscious  of 
the  vacant  place  in  their  circle,  and  always  aware  of 
the  presence  of  that  brooding  and  silent  figure  up- 
stairs, she  was  nevertheless  so  happy  sometimes  as  to 
think  herself  a  hypocrite  and  heartless.  But  long 
afterward  Susan  knew  that  the  sense  of  dramatic  fit- 
ness and  abiding  satisfaction  is  always  the  reward  of 
untiring  and  loving  service. 

She  and  Betsey  read  together,  walked  through  the 
rain  to  market,  and  came  back  glowing  and  tired,  to 
dry  their  shoes  and  coats  at  the  kitchen  fire.  They 
cooked  and  swept  and  dusted,  tried  the  furniture  in 
new  positions,  sent  Jimmy  to  the  White  House  for 
a  special  new  pattern,  and  experimented  with  house- 
dresses.  Susan  heard  the  first  real  laughter  in  months 
ring  out  at  the  dinner-table,  when  she  and  Betsey  de- 
scribed their  experiences  with  a  crab,  who  had  revived 
while  being  carried  home  in  their  market-basket. 
Jimmy,  silent,  rough-headed  and  sweet,  followed  Susan 
about  like  an  affectionate  terrier,  and  there  was  an- 
other laugh  when  Jimmy,  finishing  a  bowl  in  which 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  429 

cake  had  been  mixed,  remarked  fervently,  "Gosh,  why 
do  you  waste  time  cooking  it?" 

In  the  evening  they  played  euchre,  or  hearts,  or 
parchesi;  Susan  and  Philip  struggled  with  chess;  there 
were  talks  about  the  fire,  and  they  all  straggled  up- 
stairs at  ten  o'clock.  Anna,  appreciative  and  affection- 
ate and  brave,  came  home  for  almost  every  Saturday 
night,  and  these  were  special  occasions.  Susan  and 
Betsey  wasted  their  best  efforts  upon  the  dinner,  and 
filled  the  vases  with  flowers  and  ferns,  and  Philip 
brought  home  candy  and  the  new  magazines.  It  was 
Anna  who  could  talk  longest  with  the  isolated  mother, 
and  Susan  and  she  went  over  every  word,  afterwards, 
eager  to  find  a  ray  of  hope. 

"I  told  her  about  to-day,"  Anna  said  one  Saturday 
night,  brushing  her  long  hair,  uand  about  Billy's  walk- 
ing with  us  to  the  ridge.  Now,  when  you  go  in  to- 
morrow, Betsey,  I  wish  you'd  begin  about  Christmas. 
Just  say,  'Mother,  do  you  realize  that  Christmas  is 
a  week  from  to-morrow?'  and  then,  if  you  can,  just 
go  right  on  boldly  and  say,  'Mother,  you  won't  spoil 
it  for  us  all  by  not  coming  downstairs?'  ' 

Betsey  looked  extremely  nervous  at  this  suggestion, 
and  Susan  slowly  shook  her  head.  She  knew  how  hope- 
less the  plan  was.  She  and  Betsey  realized  even  better 
than  the  absent  Anna  how  rooted  was  Mrs.  Carroll's 
unhappy  state.  Now  and  then,  on  a  clear  day,  the 
mother  would  be  heard  going  softly  downstairs  for  a 
few  moments  in  the  garden;  now  and  then  at  the  sound 
of  luncheon  preparations  downstairs  she  would  come 
out  to  call  down,  "No  lunch  for  me,  thank  you,  girls  I" 
Otherwise  they  never  saw  her  except  sitting  idle,  black- 
clad,  in  her  rocking-chair. 

But  Christmas  was  very  close  now,  and  must  some- 
how be  endured. 

"When  are  you  boys  going  to  Mill  Valley  for 
greens?"  asked  Susan,  on  the  Saturday  before  the 
holiday. 

"Would  you?"   Philip   asked  slowly.      But  imme- 


430  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

diately  he  added,  "How  about  to-morrow,  Jimsky?" 

"Gee,  yes!"  said  Jim  eagerly.  "We'll  trim  up  the 
house  like  always,  won't  we,  Betts?" 

"Just  like  always,"  Betts  answered. 

Susan  and  Betsey  fussed  with  mince-meat  ana  frosted 
cookies;  Susan  accomplished  remarkably  good,  if  rather 
fragile,  pumpkin  pies.  The  four  decorated  the  down- 
stairs rooms  with  ropes  of  fragrant  green.  The  ex- 
pressman came  and  came  and  came  again;  Jimmy 
returned  twice  a  day  laden  from  the  Post  Office;  every- 
one remembered  the  Carrolls  this  year. 

Anna  and  Philip  and  Billy  came  home  together,  at 
midday,  on  Christmas  Eve.  Betsey  took  immediate 
charge  of  the  packages  they  brought;  she  would  not 
let  so  much  as  a  postal  card  be  read  too  soon.  Billy 
had  spent  many  a  Christmas  Eve  with  the  Carrolls; 
he  at  once  began  to  run  errands  and  carry  up  logs 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

A  conference  was  held  over  the  turkey,  lying  limp 
in  the  center  of  the  kitchen  table.  The  six  eyed  him 
respectfully. 

"Oughtn't  this  be  firm?"  asked  Anna,  fingering  a 
flexible  breast-bone. 

"No-o "  But  Susan  was  not  very  sure.  "Do 

you  know  how  to  stuff  them,  Anna?" 

"Look  in  the  books,"  suggested  Philip. 

"We  did,"  Betsey  said,  "but  they  give  chestnut  and 
mushroom  and  sweet  potato — I  don't  know  how 
Mother  does  it!" 

"You  put  crumbs  in  a  chopping  bowl,"  began  Susan, 
uncertainly,  "at  least,  that's  the  way  Mary  Lou 
did " 

"Why  crumbs  in  a  chopping  bowl,  crumbs  are 
chopped  already?"  William  observed  sensibly. 

"Well "  Susan  turned  suddenly  to  Betsey,  "Why 

don't  you  trot  up  and  ask,  Betts?"  she  suggested. 

"Oh,  Sue !"  Betsey's  healthy  color  faded.  "I  can't !': 
She  turned  appealing  eyes  to  Anna.  Anna  was  look- 
ing at  her  thoughtfully. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"I  think  that  would  be  a  good  thing  to  do,"  said 
Anna  slowly.  "Just  put  your  head  in  the  door  and 
say,  'Mother,  how  do  you  stuff  a  turkey?'  ' 

"But — but "  Betsey  began.  She  got  down  from 

the  table  and  went  slowly  on  her  errand.  The  others 
did  not  speak  while  they  waited  for  her  return. 

"Hot  water,  and  butter,  and  herbs,  and  half  an 
onion  chopped  fine!"  announced  Betts  returning. 

"Did  she — did  she  seem  to  think  it  was  odd,  Betts?" 

"No,  she  just  answered — like  she  would  have  be- 
fore. She  was  lying  down,  and  she  said  Tm  glad 
you're  going  to  have  a  turkey '  ' 

"What!"  said  Anna,  turning  white. 

"Yes,  she  did!  She  said  'You're  all  good,  brave 
children!'" 

"Oh,  Betts,  she  didn't!" 

"Honest  she  did,  Phil "  Betsey  said  aggrievedly, 

and  Anna  kissed  her  between  laughter  and  tears. 

"But  this  is  quite  the  best  yet!"  Susan  said,  con- 
tentedly, as  she  ransacked  the  breadbox  for  crumbs. 

Just  at  dinner-time  came  a  great  crate  of  violets. 
"Jo's  favorites,  from  Stewart!"  said  Anna  softly, 
filling  bowls  with  them.  And,  as  if  the  thought  of 
Josephine  had  suggested  it,  she  added  to  Philip  in  a 
low  tone : 

"Listen,  Phil,  are  we  going  to  sing  to-night?" 

For  from  babyhood,  on  the  eve  of  the  feast,  the 
Carrolls  had  gathered  at  the  piano  for  the  Christmas 
songs,  before  they  looked  at  their  gifts. 

"What  do  you  think?"  Philip  returned,  troubled. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't "  Betts  began,  choking. 

Jimmy  gave  them  all  a  disgusted  and  astonished 
look. 

"Gee,  why  not?"  he  demanded.  "Jo  used  to  love  it!" 

"How  about  it,  Sue?"  Philip  asked.  Susan  stopped 
short  in  her  work,  her  hands  full  of  violets,  and 
pondered. 

"I  think  we  ought  to,"  she  said  at  last. 

"I  do,  too !"  Billy  supported  her  unexpectedly.  "Jo'd 


432  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

be  the  first  to  say  so.    And  if  we  don't  this  Christmas, 
we  never  will  again!" 

"Your  mother  taught  you  to,"  Susan  said,  earnestly, 
"and  she  didn't  stop  it  when  your  father  died.  We'll 
have  other  breaks  in  the  circle  some  day,  but  we'll 
want  to  go  right  on  doing  it,  and  teaching  our  own 
children  to  do  it  I" 

"Yes,  you're  right,"  said  Anna,  "that  settles  it." 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  the  subject;  the  girls 
busied  themselves  with  the  dinner  dishes.  Phil  and 
Billy  drew  the  nails  from  the  waiting  Christmas  boxes. 
Jim  cracked  nuts  for  the  Christmas  dinner.  It  was 
after  nine  o'clock  when  the  kitchen  was  in  order,  the 
breakfast  table  set,  and  the  sitting-room  made  ready 
for  the  evening's  excitement.  Then  Susan  went  to  the 
old  square  piano  and  opened  it,  and  Phil,  in  absolute 
silence,  found  her  the  music  she  wanted  among  the 
long-unused  sheets  of  music  on  the  piano. 

"If  we  are  going  to  do  this,"  said  Philip  then,  "we 
mustn't  break  down  1" 

"Nope,"  said  Betts,  at  whom  the  remark  seemed  to 
be  directed,  with  a  gulp.  Susan,  whose  hands  were 
very  cold,  struck  the  opening  chords,  and  a  moment 
later  the  young  voices  rose  together,  through  the  silent 
house. 

"Adeste,  fideles, 
Lseti  triumphantes, 
Venite,  venite  in  Bethlehem.  .  .  ." 

Josephine  had  always  sung  the  little  solo.  Susan 
felt  it  coming,  and  she  and  Betts  took  it  together, 
joined  on  the  second  phrase  by  Anna's  rich,  deep  con- 
tralto. They  were  all  too  conscious  of  their  mother's 
overhearing  to  think  of  themselves  at  all.  Presently 
the  voices  became  more  natural.  It  was  just  the  Car- 
roll children  singing  their  Christmas  hymns,  as  they 
had  sung  them  all  their  lives.  One  of  their  number 
was  gone  now;  sorrow  had  stamped  all  the  young  faces 
with  new  lines,  but  the  little  circle  was  drawn  all  the 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  433 

closer  for  that.  Phil's  arm  was  tight  about  the  little 
brother's  shoulder,  Betts  and  Anna  were  clinging  to 
each  other. 

And  as  Susan  reached  the  triumphant  "Gloria — 
gloria!"  a  thrill  shook  her  from  head  to  foot.  She 
had  not  heard  a  footstep,  above  the  singing,  but  she 
knew  whose  fingers  were  gripping  her  shoulder,  she 
knew  whose  sweet  unsteady  voice  was  added  to  the 
younger  voices. 

She  went  on  to  the  next  song  without  daring  to  turn 
around; — this  was  the  little  old  nursery  favorite, 

"Oh,  happy  night,  that  brings  the  morn 
To  shine  above  the  child  new-born ! 
Oh,  happy  star!  whose  radiance  sweet 
Guided  the  wise  men's  eager  feet.  .  .  .** 

and  after  that  came  "Noel," — surely  never  sung  be- 
fore, Susan  thought,  as  they  sang  it  then !  The  piano 
stood  away  from  the  wall,  and  Susan  could  look 
across  it  to  the  big,  hpmelike,  comfortable  room,  sweet 
with  violets  now,  lighted  by  lamp  and  firelight,  the 
table  cleared  of  its  usual  books  and  games,  and  heaped 
high  with  packages.  Josephine's  picture  watched  them 
from  the  mantel;  "wherever  she  is,"  thought  Susan, 
"she  knows  that  we  are  here  together  singing!" 

"Fall  on  your  knees,  O  hear  the  angel  voices! 

Oh,  night  divine,  oh  night,  when  Christ  was  born !" 

The  glorious  triumphant  melody  rose  like  a  great 
rising  tide  of  faith  and  of  communion;  Susan  forgot 
where  she  was,  forgot  that  there  are  pain  and  loss 
in  the  world,  and,  finishing,  turned  about  on  the  piano 
bench  with  glowing  cheeks  and  shining  eyes. 

"Gee,  Moth',  I  never  heard  you  coming  down!" 
said  Jim  delightedly,  as  the  last  notes  died  away  and 
the  gap,  his  seniors  had  all  been  dreading,  was  bridged. 


434  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"I  heard  you,"  Betts  said,  radiant  and  clinging  to 
her  mother. 

Mrs.  Carroll  was  very  white,  and  they  could  see  her 
tremble. 

"Surely,  you're  going  to  open  your  presents  to-night, 
Nance?" 

"Not  if  you'd  rather  we  shouldn't,  Mother!" 

"Oh,  but  I  want  you  to!"  Her  voice  had  the  dull, 
heavy  quality  of  a  voice  used  in  sleep,  and  her  eyes 
clung  to  Anna's  almost  with  terror.  No  one  dared 
speak  of  the  miracle;  Susan  spoke  with  nervousness, 
but  Anna  bustled  about  cheerfully,  getting  her  estab- 
lished in  her  big  chair  by  the  fire.  Billy  and  Phil  re- 
turned from  the>  cellar,  gasping  and  bent  under  arm- 
fuls  of  logs.  The  fire  flamed  up,  and  Jimmy,  with  a 
bashful  and  deprecatory  "Gosh !"  attacked  the  string 
of  the  uppermost  bundle. 

So  many  packages,  so  beautifully  tied!  Such  varied 
and  wonderful  gifts?  Susan's  big  box  from  Virginia 
City  was  not  for  her  alone,  and  from  the  other  pack- 
ages at  least  a  dozen  came  to  her.  Betts,  a  wonderful 
embroidered  kimono  slipped  on  over  her  house  dress, 
looked  like  a  lovely,  fantastic  picture;  and  Susan  must 
button  her  big,  woolly  field-coat  up  to  her  chin  and 
down  to  her  knees.  "For  once  you  thought  of  a  dandy 
present,  Billy!"  said  she.  This  must  be  shown  to 
Mother;  that  must  be  shown  to  Mother;  Mother  must 
try  on  her  black  silk,  fringed,  embroidered  Chinese 
shawl. 

"Jimmy,  dear,  no  more  candy  to-night!"  said 
Mother,  in  just  the  old  voice,  and  Susan's  heart  had 
barely  time  for  a  leap  of  joy  when  she  added: 

"Oh,  Anna,  dear,  that  is  lovely.  You  must  tell 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jordan  that  is  exactly  what  you've  been 
wanting!" 

"And  what  are  your  plans  for  to-morrow,  girls?" 
she  asked,  just  before  they  all  went  up-stairs,  late  in  the 
evening. 

"Sue  and  I  to  early  .  .   ."  Anna  said,  "then  we  get 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

back  to  get  breakfast  by  nine,  and  all  the  others  to  ten 
o'clock." 

"Well,  will  you  girls  call  me?  I'll  go  with  you, 
and  then  before  the  others  get  home  we  can  have  every- 
thing done  and  the  turkey  in." 

"Yes,  Mother,"  was  all  that  Anna  said,  but  later 
she  and  Susan  were  almost  ready  to  agree  with  Betts' 
last  remark  that  night,  delivered  from  bed: 

"I  bet  to-morrow's  going  to  be  the  happiest  Christ- 
mas we  ever  had!" 

This  was  the  beginning  of  happier  days,  for  Mrs. 
Carroll  visibly  struggled  to  overcome  her  sorrow  now, 
and  Susan  and  Betsey  tried  their  best  to  help  her.  The 
three  took  long  walks,  in  the  wet  wintry  weather,  their 
hats  twisting  about  on  their  heads,  their  skirts  balloon- 
ing in  the  gale.  By  the  middle  of  March  Spring  was 
tucking  little  patches  of  grass  and  buttercups  in  all  the 
sheltered  corners,  the  sunshine  gained  in  warmth,  the 
twilights  lengthened.  Fruit  blossoms  scented  the  air, 
and  great  rain-pools,  in  the  roadways,  gave  back  a 
clear  blue  sky. 

The  girls  dragged  Mrs.  Carroll  with  them  to  the 
woods,  to  find  the  first  creamy  blossoms  of  the  trillium, 
and  scented  branches  of  wild  lilac.  One  Sunday  they 
packed  a  lunch  basket,  and  walked,  boys  and  girls  and 
mother,  up  to  the  old  cemetery,  high  in  the  hills. 
Three  miles  of  railroad  track,  twinkling  in  the  sun,  and 
a  mile  of  country  road,  brought  them  to  the  old  sunken 
gate.  Then  among  the  grassy  paths,  under  the  oaks, 
it  was  easy  to  find  the  little  stone  that  bore  Josephine's 
name. 

It  was  an  April  day,  but  far  more  like  June.  There 
was  a  wonderful  silence  in  the  air  that  set  in  crystal 
the  liquid  notes  of  the  lark,  and  carried  for  miles  the 
softened  click  of  cowbells,  far  up  on  the  ridges.  Sun- 
shine flooded  buttercups  and  poppies  on  the  grassy 
slopes,  and  whert  there  was  shade,  under  the  oaks, 
"Mission  bells"  and  scarlet  columbine  and  cream  and 


\ 

436  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

lavender  iris  were  massed  together.  Everywhere  were 
dazzling  reaches  of  light,  the  bay  far  below  shone 
blue  as  a  turquoise,  the  marshes  were  threaded  with 
silver  ribbons,  the  sky  was  high  and  cloudless.  Trains 
went  by,  with  glorious  rushes  and  puffs  of  rising, 
snowy  smoke;  even  here  they  could  hear  the  faint  clang 
of  the  bell.  A  little  flock  of  sheep  had  come  up  from 
the  valley,  and  the  soft  little  noises  of  cropping  seemed 
only  to  underscore  the  silence. 

Mrs.  Carroll  walked  home  between  Anna  and  Phil; 
Susan  and  Billy  and  the  younger  two  engaged  in 
spirited  conversation  on  ahead. 

"Mother  said  'Happiness  comes  back  to  us,  doesn't 
it,  Nance!'"  Anna  reported  that  night.  "She  said, 
'We  have  never  been  happier  than  we  have  to-day!' ' 

"Never  been  so  happy,"  Susan  said  sturdily.  "When 
has  Philip  ever  been  such  an  unmitigated  comfort,  or 
Betts  so  thoughtful  and  good?" 

"Well,  we  might  have  had  that,  and  Jo  too,"  Anna 
said  wistfully. 

"Yes,  but  one  doesn't,  Anna.     That's  just  it!" 

Susan  had  long  before  this  again  become  a  woman 
of  business.  When  she  first  spoke  of  leaving  the  Car- 
rolls,  a  violent  protest  had  broken  out  from  the 
younger  members  of  the  family.  This  might  have 
been  ignored,  but  there  was  no  refusing  the  sick  en- 
treaty of  their  mother's  eyes;  Susan  knew  that  she 
was  still  needed,  and  was  content  to  delay  her  going 
indefinitely. 

"It  seems  unfair  to  you,  Sue,"  Anna  protested.  But 
Susan,  standing  at  the  window,  and  looking  down  at 
the  early  spring  flood  of  blossoms  and  leaves  in  the  gar- 
den, dissented  a  little  sadly. 

"No,  it's  not,  Nance,"  she  said.  "I  only  v/ish  I 
could  stay  here  forever.  I  never  want  to  go  out  into 
the  world,  and  meet  people  again " 

Susan  finished  with  a  retrospective  shudder. 

"I  think  coming  to  you  when  I  did  saved  my  reason," 
she  said  presently,  "and  I'm  in  no  hurry  to  go  away 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  437 

again.  No,  it  would  be  different,  Nance,  if  I  had  a 
regular  trade  or  profession.  But  I  haven't  and,  even 
if  I  go  to  New  York,  I  don't  want  to  go  until  after 
hot  weather.  Twenty-six,"  Susan  went  on,  gravely, 
"and  just  beginning!  Suppose  somebody  had  cared 
enough  to  teach  me  something  ten  years  ago!" 

"Your  aunt  thought  you  would  marry,  and  you  will 
marry,  Sue!"  Anna  said,  coming  to  put  her  arm  about 
her,  and  lay  her  cheek  against  Susan's. 

"Ah,  well!"  Susan  said  presently  with  a  sigh,  "I 
suppose  that  if  I  had  a  sixteen-year-old  daughter  this 
minute  I'd  tell  her  that  Mother  wanted  her  to  be  a 
happy  girl  at  home ;  she'd  be  married  one  of  these  days, 
and  find  enough  to  do!" 

But  it  was  only  a  few  days  after  this  talk  that  one 
Orville  Billings,  the  dyspeptic  and  middle-aged  owner 
and  editor  of  the  "Sausalito  Weekly  Democrat" 
offered  her  a  position  upon  his  editorial  staff,  at  a 
salary  of  eight  dollars  a  week.  Susan  promptly  ac- 
cepted, calmly  confident  that  she  could  do  the  work, 
and  quite  justified  in  her  confidence.  For  six  morn- 
ings a  week  she  sat  in  the  dingy  little  office  on  the 
water-front,  reading  proof  and  answering  telephone 
calls,  re-writing  contributions  and  clipping  exchanges. 
In  the  afternoons  she  was  free  to  attend  weddings, 
club-meetings  or  funerals,  or  she  might  balance  books 
or  send  out  bills,  word  advertisements,  compose  notices 
of  birth  and  death,  or  even  brew  Mr.  Billings  a  com- 
forting cup  of  soup  or  cocoa  over  the  gas-jet.  Susan 
usually  began  the  day  by  sweeping  out  the  office.  Some- 
times Betsey  brought  down  her  lunch  and  they  picnicked 
together.  There  was  always  a  free  afternoon  or  two 
in  the  week. 

On  the  whole,  it  was  a  good  position,  and  Susan 
enjoyed  her  work,  enjoyed  her  leisure,  enormously 
enjoyed  the  taste  of  life. 

"For  years  I  had  a  good  home,  and  a  good  posi- 
tion, and  good  friends  and  was  unhappy,"  she  said 
to  Billy.  "Now  I've  got  exactly  the  same  things  and 


438  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

I'm  so  happy  I  can  scarcely  sleep  at  night.  Happiness 
is  merely  a  habit." 

"No,  no,"  he  protested,  "the  Carrolls  are  the  most 
extraordinary  people  in  the  world,  Sue.  And  then, 
anyway,  you're  different — you've  learned." 

"Well,  I've  learned  this,"  she  said,  "There's  a 
great  deal  more  happiness,  everywhere,  than  one 
imagines.  Every  baby  brings  whole  tons  of  it,  and 
roast  chickens  and  apple-pies  and  new  lamps  and  hus- 
bands coming  home  at  night  are  making  people  happy 
all  the  time!  People  are  celebrating  birthdays  and 
moving  into  bigger  houses,  and  having  their  married 
daughters  home  for  visits,  right  straight  along.  But 
when  you  pass  a  dark  lower  flat  on  a  dirty  street,  some- 
how it  doesn't  occur  to  you  that  the  people  who  live 
in  it  are  saving  up  for  a  home  in  the  Western  Addi* 
tion!" 

"Well,  Sue,  unhappiness  is  bad  enough,  when  there's 
a  reason  for  it,"  William  caid,  "but  when  you've  taken 
your  philanthropy  course,  I  wish  you'd  come  out  and 
demonstrate  to  the  women  at  the  Works  that  the  only 
thing  that  keeps  them  from  being  happy  and  pros- 
perous is  not  having  the  sense  to  know  that  they 
are!" 

"I?  What  could  I  ever  teach  anyone!"  laughed 
Susan  Brown. 

Yet  she  was  changing  and  learning,  as  she  presently 
had  reason  to  see.  It  was  on  a  hot  Saturday  in  July 
that  Susan,  leaving  the  office  at  two  o'clock,  met  the 
lovely  Mrs.  John  Furlong  on  the  shore  road.  Even 
more  gracious  and  charming  than  she  had  been  as 
Isabel  Wallace,  the  young  matron  quite  took  posses- 
sion of  Susan.  Where  had  Susan  been  hiding — and 
how  wonderfully  well  she  was  looking — and  why 
hadn't  she  come  to  see  Isabel's  new  house? 

"Be  a  darling!"  said  Mrs.  Furlong,  "and  come 
along  home  with  me  now!  Jack  is  going  to  bring 
Sherwin  Perry  home  to  dinner  with  him,  and  I  truly, 
truly  need  a  girl!  Run  up  and  change  your  dress  if 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  439 

you  want  to,  while  I'm  making  my  call,  and  meet  me 
on  the  four  o'clock  train!" 

Susan  hesitated,  filled  with  unreasoning  dread  of  a 
plunge  back  into  the  old  atmosphere,  but  in  the  end 
she  did  go  up  to  change  her  dress, — rejoicing  that  the 
new  blue  linen  was  finished,  and  did  join  Isabel  at 
the  train,  filled  with  an  absurd  regret  at  having  to  miss 
a  week-end  at  home,  and  Anna. 

Isabel,  very  lovely  in  a  remarkable  gown  and  hat, 
chatted  cheerfully  all  the  way  home,  and  led  the  guest 
to  quite  the  smartest  of  the  motor-cars  that  were  wait- 
ing at  the  San  Rafael  station.  Susan  was  amazed — a 
little  saddened — to  find  that  the  beautiful  gowns  and 
beautiful  women  and  lovely  homes  had  lost  their 
appeal;  to  find  herself  analyzing  even  Isabel's  happy 
chatter  with  a  dispassionate,  quiet  unbelief. 

The  new  home  proved  to  be  very  lovely;  a  har- 
monious mixture  of  all  the  sorts  of  doors  and  win- 
dows, porches  and  roofs  that  the  young  owners  fan- 
cied. Isabel,  trailing  her  frothy  laces  across  the  cool 
deep  hallway,  had  some  pretty,  matronly  questions  to 
ask  of  her  butler,  before  she  could  feel  free  for  her 
guest.  Had  Mrs.  Wallace  telephoned — had  the  man 
fixed  the  mirror  in  Mr.  Furlong's  bathroom — had  the 
wine  come? 

"I  have  no  housekeeper,"  said  Isabel,  as  they  went 
upstairs,  "and  I  sha'n't  have  one.  I  think  I  owe  it  to 
myself,  and  to  the  maids,  Sue,  to  take  that  respon- 
sibility entirely!"  Susan  recognized  the  unchanged 
sweetness  and  dutifulness  that  had  marked  the  old 
Isabel,  who  could  with  perfect  simplicity  and  reason 
seem  to  make  a  virtue  of  whatever  she  did. 

They  went  into  the  sitting-room  adjoining  the  young 
mistress'  bedroom,  an  airy  exquisite  apartment  all 
colonial  white  and  gay  flowered  hangings,  with  French 
windows,  near  which  the  girls  settled  themselves  for 
tea. 

"Nothing's  new  with  me,"  Susan  said,  in  answer  to 
Isabel's  smiling  inquiry.  What  could  she  say  to  hold 


440  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

the  interest  of  this  radiant  young  princess?  Isabel 
accordingly  gave  her  own  news,  some  glimpses  of 
her  European  wedding  journey,  some  happy  descrip- 
tions of  wedding  gifts.  The  Saunders  were  abroad, 
she  told  Susan,  Ella  and  Emily  and  their  mother  with 
Kenneth,  at  a  German  cure.  "And  Mary  Peacock- 
did  you  know  her?  is  with  them,"  said  Isabel.  "I 
think  that's  an  engagement!" 

"Doesn't  that  seem  horrible?  You  know  he's  in- 
curable  "  Susan  said,  slowly  stirring  her  cup.  But 

she  instantly  perceived  that  the  comment  was  not 
acceptable  to  young  Mrs.  Furlong.  After  all,  thought 
Susan,  Society  is  a  very  jealous  institution,  and  Isabel 
was  of  its  inner  circle. 

"Oh,  I  think  that  was  all  very  much  exaggerated!" 
Isabel  said  lightly,  pleasantly.  "At  least,  Sue,"  she 
added  kindly,  "you  and  I  are  not  fair  judges  of  it!" 
And  after  a  moment's  silence,  for  Susan  kept  a  pass- 
ing sensation  of  irritation  admirably  concealed,  she 
added,  " But  I  didn't  show  you  my  pearls!" 

A  maid  presently  brought  them,  a  perfect  string, 
which  Susan  slipped  through  her  fingers  with  real  de- 
light. 

"Woman,  they're  the  size  of  robins'  eggs!"  she  said. 
Isabel  was  all  sweet  gaiety  again.  She  touched  the 
lovely  chain  tenderly,'  while  she  told  of  Jack's  promise 
to  give  her  her  choice  of  pearls  or  a  motor-car  for  her 
birthday,  and  of  his  giving  her  both!  She  presently 
called  the  maid  again. 

"Pauline,  put  these  back,  will  you,  please?"  asked 
Isabel,  smilingly.  When  the  maid  was  gone  she  added, 
"I  always  trust  the  maids  that  way!  They  love  to 
handle  my  pretty  things, — and  who  can  blame  them? 
— and  I  let  them  whenever  I  can !" 

They  were  still  lingering  over  tea  when  Isabel  heard 
her  husband  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  went  in,  clos- 
ing the  door  after  her,  to  welcome  him. 

"He's  all  dirty  from  tennis,"  said  the  young  wife, 
coming  back  and  resuming  her  deep  chair,  with  a  smile, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  441 

"and  cross  because  I  didn't  go  and  pick  him  up  at  the 
courts!" 

"Oh,  that  was  my  fault!"  Susan  exclaimed,  remem- 
bering that  Isabel  could  not  always  be  right,  unless 
innocent  persons  would  sometimes  agree  to  be  wrong. 
Mrs.  Furlong  smiled  composedly,  a  lovely  vision  in 
her  loose  lacy  robe. 

"Never  mind,  he'll  get  over  it!"  she  said  and,  accom- 
panying Susan  to  one  of  the  handsome  guest-rooms, 
she  added  confidentially,  "My  dear,  when  a  man's  first 
married,  anything  that  keeps  him  from  his  wife  makes 
him  cross!  It's  no  more  your  fault  than  mine!" 

Sherwin  Perry,  the  fourth  at  dinner,  was  a  rosy, 
clean-shaven,  stupid  youth,  who  seemed  absorbed  in 
his  fooc£  and  whose  occasional  violent  laughter,  pro- 
voked by  his  host's  criticism  of  different  tennis-players, 
turned  his  big  ears  red.  John  Furlong  told  Susan  a 
great  deal  of  his  new  yacht,  rattling  off  technical  terms 
with  simple  pride,  and  quoting  at  length  one  of  the 
men  at  the  ship-builders'  yard. 

"Gosh,  he  certainly  is  a  marvelous  fellow, — Haley 
is,"  said  John,  admiringly.  "I  wish  you  could  hear 
him  talk!  He  knows  everything!" 

Isabel  was  deeply  absorbed  in  her  new  delightful 
responsibilities  as  mistress  of  the  house. 

"Excuse  me  just  a  moment,  Susan Jack,  the  stuff 

for  the  library  curtains  came,  and  I  don't  think  it's 
the  same,"  said  Isabel  or,  "Jack,  dear,  I  accepted  for 
the  Gregorys',"  or  "The  Wilsons  didn't  get  their  card 
after  all,  Jack.  Helen  told  Mama  so!"  All  these 
matters  were  discussed  at  length  between  husband  and 
wife,  Susan  occasionally  agreeing  or  sympathizing. 
Lake  Tahoe,  where  the  Furlongs  expected  to  go  in 
a  day  or  two,  was  also  a  good  deal  considered. 

"We  ought  to  sit  out-of-doors  this  lovely  night," 
said  Isabel,  after  dinner.  But  conversation  languished, 
and  they  began  a  game  of  bridge.  This  continued  for 
perhaps  an  hour,  then  the  men  began  bidding  madly, 
and  doubling  and  redoubling,  and  Isabel  good- 


442  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

naturedly  terminated  the  game,  and  carried  her  guest 
upstairs  with  her. 

Here,  in  Susan's  room,  they  had  a  talk,  Isabel  ad- 
visory and  interested,  Susan  instinctively  warding  off 
sympathy  and  concern. 

"Sue, — you  won't  be  angry?"  said  Isabel,  affection- 
ately "but  I  do  so  hate  to  see  you  drifting,  and  want 
to  have  you  as  happy  as  I  am!  Is  there  somebody?" 

"Not  unless-you  count  the  proprietor  of  the  'Demo- 
crat,' "  Susan  laughed. 

"It's  no  laughing  matter,  Sue "  Isabel  began, 

seriously.  But  Susan,  laying  a  quick  hand  upon  her 
arm,  said  smilingly: 

"Isabel !  Isabel !  What  do  you,  of  all  women,  know 
about  the  problems  and  the  drawbacks  of  a  "life  like 
mine?" 

"Well,  I  do  feel  this,  Sue,"  Isabel  said,  just  a  little 
ruffled,  but  smiling,  too,  "I've  had  money  since  I  was 
born,  I  admit.  But  money  has  never  made  any  real 
difference  with  me.  I  would  have  dressed  more  plainly, 
perhaps,  as  a  working  woman,  but  I  would  always 
have  had  everything  dainty/and  fresh,  and  Father  says 
that  I  really  have  a  man's  mind;  that  I  would  have 
climbed  right  to  the  top  in  any  position !  So  don't 
talk  as  if  I  didn't  know  anything!" 

Presently  she  heard  Jack's  step,  and  ran  off  to  her 
own  room.  But  she  was  back  again  in  a  few  moments. 
Jack  had  just  come  up  to  find  some  cigars,  it  appeared. 
Jack  was  such  a  goose ! 

"He's  a  dear,"  said  Susan.  Isabel  agreed.  "Jack 
was  wonderful,"  she  said.  Had  Susan  noticed  him  with 
older  people?  And  with  babies 

"That's  all  we  need,  now,"  said  the  happy  Isabel. 

"Babies  are  darling,"  agreed  Susan,  feeling  elderly 
and  unmarried. 

"Yes,  and  when  you're  married,"  Isabel  said  dream- 
ily, "they  seem  so — so  sacred — but  you'll  see  yourself, 
some  day,  I  hope.  Hark!" 

And  she  was  gone  again,  only  to  come  back.    It  was 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

as  if  Isabel  gained  fresh  pleasure  in  her  new  estate 
by  seeing  it  afresh  through  Susan's  eyes.  She  had  the 
longing  of  the  bride  to  give  her  less-experienced  friend 
just  a  glimpse  of  the  new,  delicious  relationship. 

Left  alone  at  last,  Susan  settled  herself  luxuriously 
in  bed,  a  heap  of  new  books  beside  her,  soft  pillows 
under  her  head,  a  great  light  burning  over  her  shoulder, 
and  the  fragrance  of  the  summer  night  stealing  in 
through  the  wide-opened  windows.  She  gave  a  great 
sigh  of  relief,  wondered,  between  desultory  reading,  ' 
at  how  early  an  hour  she  could  decently  excuse  herself 
in  the  morning.  » 

"I  suppose  that,  if  I  fell  heir  to  a  million,  I  might 
build  a  house  like  this,  and  think  that  a  string  of 
pearls  was  worth  buying,"  said  Susan  to  herself,  "but 
I  don't  believe  I  would!" 

Isabel  wrould  not  let  her  hurry  away  in  the  morn- 
ing; it  was  too  pleasant  to  have  so  gracious  and  inter- 
ested a  guest,  so  sympathetic  a  witness  to  her  own 
happiness.  She  and  Susan  lounged  through  the  long 
morning,  Susan  admired  the  breakfast  service,  admired 
the  rugs,  admired  her  host's  character.  Nothing  really 
interested  Isabel,  despite  her  polite  questions  and  as- 
sents, but  Isabel's  possessions,  Isabel's  husband,  Isa- 
bel's genius  for  housekeeping  and  entertaining.  The  , 
gentlemen  appeared  at  noon,  and  the  four  went  to  the 
near-by  hotel  for  luncheon,  and  here  Susan  saw  Peter 
Coleman  again,  very  handsome  and  gay,  in  white 
flannels,  and  very  much  inclined  toward  the  old  rela- 
tionship with  her.  Peter  begged  them  to  spend 
the  afternoon  with  him,  trying  the  new  motor-car, 
and  Isabel  was  charmed  to  agree.  Susan  agreed 
too,  after  a  hesitation  she  did  not  really  understand 
in  herself.  What  pleasanter  prospect  could  anyone 
have? 

While  they  were  loitering  over  their  luncheon,  in 
the  shaded,  delightful  coolness  of  the  lunch-room,  sud- 
denly Dolly  Ripley,  over-dressed,  gay  and  talkative  as 
always,  came  up  to  their  table. 


444  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

She  greeted  the  others  negligently,  but  showed  a 
certain  enthusiasm  for  Susan. 

"Hello,  Isabel,"  said  Dolly,  "I  saw  you  all  come 
in — 'he  seen  that  a  mother  and  child  was  there!'  ' 

This  last  was  the  special  phrase  of  the  moment. 
Susan  had  heard  it  forty  times  within  the  past  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  was  at  no  pains  to  reconcile  it  to  this 
particular  conversation. 

"But  you,  you  villain — where' ve  you  been?"  pur- 
sued Dolly,  to  Susan,  "why  don't  you  come  down  and 
spend  a  week  with  me?  Do  you  see  anything  of  our 
dear  friend  Emily  in  these  days?" 

"Emily's  abroad,"  said  Susan,  and  Peter  added: 

"With  Ella  and  Mary  Peacock — 'he  seen  that  a 
mother  and  child  was  there!'' 

"Oh,  you  devil!"  said  Dolly,  laughing.  "But  hon- 
estly," she  added  gaily  to  Susan,  '"how  you  could  put 
up  with  Em  Saunders  as  long  as  you  did  was  a  mystery 
to  me!  It's  a  lucky  thing  you're  not  like  me,  Susan 
van  Dusen,  people  all  tell  me  I'm  more  like  a  boy  than 
a  girl, — when  I  think  a  thing  I'm  going  to  say  it  or 
bust!  Now,  listen,  you're  coming  down  to  me  for  a 
week " 

Susan  left  the  invitation  open,  to  Isabel's  concern. 

"Of  course,  as  you  say,  you  have  a  position,  Sue," 
said  Isabel,  when  they  were  spinning  over  the  coun- 
try roads,  in  Peter's  car,  "but,  my  dear,  Dolly  Ripley 
and  Con  Fox  don't  speak  now, — Connie's  going  on  the 
stage,  they  say! " 

"  'A  mother  and  child  will  be  there',  all  right!"  said 
John  Furlong,  leaning  back  from  the  front  seat.  Isa- 
bel laughed,  but  went  on  seriously, 

" and  Dolly  really  wants  someone  to  stay  with 

her,  Sue,  and  think  what  a  splendid  thing  that  would 
be!" 

Susan  answered  absently.  They  had  taken  the  Sau- 
salito  road,  to  get  the  cool  air  from  the  bay,  and  it 
flashed  across  her  that  if  she  could  persuade  them  to 
drop  her  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  she  could  be  at  home 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  445 

in  five  minutes, — back  in  the  dear  familiar  garden, 
with  Anna  and  Phil  lazily  debating  the  attractions  of 
a  walk  and  a  row,  and  Betsey  compounding  weak,  cold, 
too-sweet  lemonade.  Suddenly  the  only  important 
thing  in  the  world  seemed  to  be  her  escape. 

There  they  were,  just  as  she  had  pictured  them; 
Mrs.  Carroll,  gray-haired,  dignified  in  her  lacy  light 
black,  was  in  a  deep  chair  on  the  lawn,  reading  aloud 
from  the  paper;  Betsey,  sitting  at  her  feet,  twisted 
and  folded  the  silky  ears  of  the  setter;  Anna  was  lying 
in  a  hammock,  lazily  watching  her  mother,  and  Billy 
Oliver  had  joined  the  boys,  sprawling  comfortably  on 
the  grass. 

A  chorus  of  welcome  greeted  Susan. 

"Oh,  Sue,  you  old  duck!"  said  Betsey,  "we've  just 
been  waiting  for  you  to  decide  what  we'd  do  1" 


CHAPTER   IV 

THESE  were  serene  and  sweet  days  for  them  all,  and, 
if  sometimes  the  old  sorrow  returned  for  awhile,  and 
there  were  still  bitter  longing  and  grieving  for  Jose- 
phine, there  were  days,  too,  when  even  the  mother 
admitted  to  herself  that  some  new  tender  element  had 
crept  into  their  love  for  each  other  since  the  little  sis- 
ter's going,  the  invisible  presence  was  the  closest  and 
strongest  of  the  ties  that  bound  them  all.  Happiness 
came  back,  planning  and  dreaming  began  again.  Susan 
teased  Anna  and  Betsey  into  wearing  white  again,  when 
the  hot  weather  came,  Billy  urged  the  first  of  the 
walks  to  the  beach  without  Jo,  and  Anna  herself  it 
was  who  began  to  extend  the  old  informal  invitations 
to  the  nearest  friends  and  neighbors  for  the  tea-hour 
on  Saturday.  Susan  was  to  have  her  vacation  in 
August;  Billy  was  to  have  at  least  a  week;  Anna  had 
been  promised  the  fortnight  of  Susan's  freedom,  and 
Jimmy  and  Betsey  could  hardly  wait  for  the  camping 
trip  they  planned  to  take  all  together  to  the  little  shoot- 
ing box  in  the  mountains. 

One  August  afternoon  Susan,  arriving  home  from 
the  office  at  one  o'clock,  found  Mrs.  Carroll  waiting 
to  ask  her  a  favor. 

"Sue,  dear,  I'm  right  in  the  middle  of  my  baking," 
Mrs.  Carroll  said,  when.  Susan  was  eating  a  late  lunch 
from  the  end  of  the  kitchen  table,  "and  here's  a  spe- 
cial delivery  letter  for  Billy,  and  Billy's  not  coming 
over  here  to-night!  Phil's  taking  Jimmy  and  Betts  to 
the  circus — they  hadn't  been  gone  five  minutes  when 
this  thing  came!" 

"Why  a  special  delivery — and  why  here — and  what 
is  it?"  asked  Susan,  wiping  buttery  fingers  carefully 

446 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  447 

before  she  took  the  big  envelope  in  her  hands.  "It's 
from  Edward  Dean,"  she  said,  examining  it  with  un- 
affected interest.  "Oh,  I  know  what  this  is — it's  about 
that  blue-print  business !"  Susan  finished,  enlightened. 
"Probably  Mr.  Dean  didn't  have  Billy's  new  address, 
but  wanted  him  to  have  these  to  work  on,  on  Sunday." 

"It  feels  as  if  something  bulky  was  in  there,"  Mrsv 
Carroll  said.  "I  wish  we  could  get  him  by  telephone ! 
As  bad  luck  would  have  it,  he's  a  good  deal  worried 
about  the  situation  at  the  works,  and  told  me  he 
couldn't  possibly  leave  the  men  this  week.  What  are 
the  blue-prints?" 

"Why,  it's  some  little  patent  of  Billy's, — a  deer> 
petticoat,  double-groove  porcelain  insulator,  if  that 
means  anyone  to  anyone!"  laughed  Susan.  "He's 
been  raving  about  it  for  weeks!  And  he  and  Mr. 
Dean  have  to  rush  the  patent,  because  they've  been 
using  these  things  for  some  time,  and  they  have  to- 
patent  them  before  they've  been  used  a  year,  it  seems!" 

"I  was  just  thinking,  Sue,  that,  if  you  didn't  mind 
crossing  to  the  city  with  them,  you  could  put  on  a 
special-delivery  stamp  and  then  Billy  would  have  them 
to-night.  Otherwise,  they  won't  leave  here  until  to- 
morrow morning." 

"Why,  of  course,  that'll  do !"  Susan  said  willingly. 
"I  can  catch  the  two-ten.  Or  better  yet,  Aunt  Jo,  I'll 
take  them  right  out  there  and  deliver  them  myself." 

"Oh,  dearie,  no!  Not  if  there's  any  ugliness  among 
the  men,  not  if  they  are  talking  of  a  strike!"  the  older 
woman  protested. 

"Oh,  they're  always  striking,"  Susan  said  easily. 
"And  if  I  can't  get  him  to' bring  me  back,"  she  added, 
"don't  worry,  for  I  may  go  stay  with  Georgie  over- 
night, and  come  back  with  Bill  in  the  morning  I" 

She  was  not  sorry  to  have  an  errand  on  this  exquis- 
ite afternoon.  The  water  of  the  bay  was  as  smooth 
as  blue  glass,  gulls  were  flashing  and  dipping  in  the 
steamer's  wake.  Sailboats,  waiting  for  the  breeze, 


448  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

drifted  idly  toward  the  Golden  Gate;  there  was  not 
a  cloud  in  the  blue  arch  of  the  sky.  The  little  Mc- 
Dowell whistled  for  her  dock  at  Alcatraz.  On  the 
prison  island  men  were  breaking  stone  with  a  metallic 
clink — clink — clink. 

Susan  found  the  ferry-place  in  San  Francisco  hot 
and  deserted;  the  tar  pavements  were  softened  under- 
foot; gongs  and  bells  of  cars  made  a  raucous  clamor. 
She  was  glad  to  establish  herself  on  the  front  seat  of 
a  Mission  Street  car  and  leave  the  crowded  water- 
front behind  her. 

They  moved  along  through  congested  traffic,  past 
the  big  docks,  and  turned  in  between  the  great  ware- 
houses that  line  Mission  Street.  The  hot  streets  were 
odorous  of  leather  and  machine-oils,  ropes  and  coffee. 
Over  the  door  of  what  had  been  Hunter,  Baxter  & 
Hunter's  hung  a  new  bright  sign,  "Hunter,  Hunter 
&  Brauer."  Susan  caught  a  glimpse,  through  the 
plaster  ornamentation  of  the  facade,  of  old  Front 
Office,  which  seemed  to  be  full  of  brightly  nickeled 
samples  now,  and  gave  back  a  blinking  flash  of  light 
to  the  afternoon  sun. 

"Bathroom  fixtures,"  thought  Susan.  "He  always 
wanted  to  carry  them !"  What  a  long  two  years  since 
she  had  known  or  cared  what  pleased  or  displeased 
Mr.  Brauer! 

The  car  clanged  out  of  the  warehouse  district,  past 
cheap  flats  and  cheap  shops,  and  saloons,  and  second- 
hand stores,  boiling  over,  at  their  dark  doorways,  with 
stoves  and  rocking-chairs,  lamps  and  china  ware.  This 
neighborhood  was  sordid  enough,  but  crowded,  happy 
and  full  of  life.  Now  the  road  ran  through  less  popu- 
lous streets;  houses  stood  at  curious  angles,  and  were 
unpainted,  or  painted  in  unusual  colors.  Great  ware- 
houses and  factories  shadowed  little  clusters  of  work- 
ingmen's  homes;  here  and  there  were  country-like 
strips  of  brown  palings  with  dusty  mallow  bushes  spray- 
ing about  them,  or  a  lean  cow  grazing  near  a  bare  little 
wooden  farmhouse.  Dumps,  diffusing  a  dry  and  dread- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  449 

ful  odor,  blighted  the  prospect  with  their  pyramids 
of  cans  and  broken  umbrellas;  little  grocery  stores, 
each  with  its  wide  tmrailed  porch,  country  fashion,  and 
its  bar  accessible  through  the  shop,  or  by  a  side  en- 
trance, often  marked  the  corners  on  otherwise  vacant 
blocks. 

Susan  got  off  the  car  in  the  very  shadow  of  the 
"works,"  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  great 
foundries,  the  dark  and  dirty  yards,  with  their  inter- 
lacing tracks  and  loaded  cars,  the  enormous  brick 
buildings  set  with  rows  and  rows  of  blank  and  dusty 
windows,  the  brick  chimneys  and  the  black  pipes  of 
the  blast-furnaces,  the  heaps  of  twisted  old  iron  and 
of  ashes,  the  blowing  dust  and  glare  of  the  hot  summer 
day.  She  had  been  here  with  Billy  before,  had  peeped 
into  the  furnace  rooms,  all  a  glare  of  white  heat  and 
silhouetted  forms,  had  breathed  the  ashy  and  choking 
air. 

Now  she  turned  and  walked  toward  the  rows  of 
workingmen's  cottages  that  had  been  built,  solidly 
massed,  nearby.  Presenting  an  unbroken,  two-story 
fagade,  the  long  buildings  were  divided  into  tiny  houses 
that  had  each  two  flat-faced  windows  upstairs,  and  a 
door  and  one  window  downstairs.  The  seven  or  eight 
long  buildings  might  have  been  as  many  gigantic  Ger- 
man toys,  dotted  with  apertures  by  some  accurate 
brush,  and  finished  with  several  hundred  flights  of 
wooden  steps  and  several  hundred  brick  chimneys. 
Ugly  when  they  first  were  built,  they  were  even  uglier 
now,  for  the  exterior  was  of  some  shallow  plaster  that 
chipped  and  cracked  and  stained  and  in  nearly  every 
dooryard  dirt  and  disorder  added  a  last  touch  to  the 
unlovely  whole. 

Children  swarmed  everywhere  this  afternoon;  heavy, 
dirty-faced  babies  sat  in  the  doorways,  women  talked 
and  laughed  over  the  low  dividing  fences.  Gates  hung 
awry,  and  baby  carriages  and  garbage  tins  obstructed 
the  bare,  trampled  spaces  that  might  have  been  little 
gardens. 


450  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Up  and  down  the  straight  narrow  streets,  and  loiter- 
ing everywhere,  were  idle,  restless  men.  A  few  were 
amusing  babies,  or  joining  in  the  idle  chatter  of  the 
women,  but  for  the  most  part  they  were  silent,  or  talk- 
ing in  low  tones  among  themselves. 

"Strikers!"  Susan  said  to  herself,  with  a  thrill. 

Over  the  whole  curious,  exotic  scene  the  late  sum- 
mer sunshine  streamed  generously;  the  street  was  hot, 
the  talking  women  fanned  themselves  with  their  aprons. 

Susan,  walking  slowly  alone,  found  herself  attract- 
ing a  good  deal  of  attention,  and  was  amazed  to  find 
that  it  frightened  her  a  little.  She  was  conspicuously 
a  newcomer,  and  could  not  but  overhear  the  comments 
that  some  of  the  watching  young  men  made  as  she 
went  by. 

"Say,  what's  that  song  about  Td  leave  my  happy 
home  for  you,'  Bert?"  she  heard  them  say.  "Don't 
ask  me!  I'm  expecting  my  gurl  any  minute!"  and 
"Pretty  good  year  for  peaches,  I  hear!" 

Susan  had  to  pretend  that  she  did  not  hear,  but 
she  heartily  wished  herself  back  on  the  car.  However, 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  walk  senselessly  on,  or 
stop  and  ask  her  way.  She  began  to  look  furtively 
about  for  a  friendly  face,  and  finally  stopped  beside 
a  dooryard  where  a  slim  pretty  young  woman  was 
sitting  with  a  young  baby  in  her  arms. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Susan,  "but  do  you  know  where 
.Mr.  William  Oliver  lives,  now?" 

The  girl  studied  her  quietly  for  a  minute,  with  a 
closed,  composed  mouth.  Then  she  said  evenly: 

"Joe!" 

"Huh?"  said  a  tall  young  man,  lathered  for  shaving, 
who  came  at  once  to  the  door. 

"I'm  trying  to  find  Mr.  Oliver — William  Oliver," 
Susan  said  smiling.  "I'm  a  sort  of  cousin  of  his,  and 
I  have  a  special  delivery  letter  for  him." 

Joe,  who  had  been  rapidly  removing  the  lather 
from  his  face  with  a  towel,  took  the  letter  and,  look- 
ing at  it,  gravely  conceded: 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  451' 

"Well,  maybe  that's  right,  too!  Sure  you  can  see 
him.  We're  having  a  conference  up  at  the  office  to- 
night," he  explained,  "and  I  have  to  clean  up  or  I'd 
take  you  to  him  myself!  Maybe  you'd  do  it,  Lizzie?" 
he  suggested  to  his  wife,  who  was  all  friendliness  to 
Susan  now,  and  showed  even  a  hint  of  respect  in  her 
friendliness. 

"Well,  I  could  nurse  him  later,  Joe,"  she  agreed 
willingly,  in  reference  to  the  baby,  "or  maybe  Mama 
— Mama !"  she  interrupted  herself  to  call. 

An  immense,  gray-haired  old  woman,  who  had  been 
an  interested  auditor  of  this  little  conversation,  got  up 
from  the  steps  of  the  next  house,  and  came  to  the 
fence.  Susan  liked  Elian  Cudahy  at  first  sight,  and 
smiled  at  her  as  she  explained  her  quest. 

"And  you're  Mr.  Oliver's  sister,  I  c'n  see  that,'* 
said  Mrs.  Cudahy  shrewdly. 

"No,  I'm  not!"  Susan  smiled.  "My  name  is  Brown. 
But  Mr.  Oliver  was  a  sort  of  ward  of  my  aunt's,  and 
so  we  call  ourselves  cousins." 

"Well,  of  course  ye  wud,"  agreed  Mrs.  Cudahy. 
"Wait  till  I  pin  on  me  hat  wanst,  and  I'll  take  you 
up  to  the  Hall.  He's  at  the  Hall,  Joe,  I  dunno?"  she 
asked. 

Joseph  assenting,  they  set  out  for  the  Hall,  under 
a  fire  of  curious  eyes. 

"Joe's  cleaning  up  for  the  conference,"  said  Mrs. 
Cudahy.  "There's  a  committee  going  to  meet  to- 
night. The  old  man — that's  Carpenter,  the  boss  of 
the  works,  will  be  there,  and  some  of  the  others." 

Susan  nodded  intelligently,  but  Saturday  evening 
seemed  to  her  a  curious  time  to  select  for  a  confer- 
ence. They  walked  along  in  silence,  Mrs.  Cudahy  giv- 
ing a  brief  yet  kindly  greeting  to  almost  every  man 
they  met. 

"Hello,  Dan,  hello,  Gene;  how  are  ye,  Jim?"  said 
she,  and  one  young  giant,  shouldering  his  scowling  way 
home,  she  stopped  with  a  fat  imperative  hand.  "How's 
it  going,  Jarge?" 


452  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"It's  going  rotten,"  said  George,  sullenly  evading 
her  eyes. 

"Well, — don't  run  by  me  that  way — stand  still!" 
said  the  old  woman.  "What  d'ye  mean  by  rotten?" 

"Aw,  I  mean  rotten!"  said  George  ungraciously. 
"D'ye  know  what  the  old  man  is  going  to  do  now? 
He  says  that  he'll  give  Billy  just  two  or  three  days 
more  to  settle  this  damn  thing,  and  then  he'll  wire 
east  and  get  a  carload  of  men  right  straight  through 
from  Philadelphia.  He  said  so  to  young  Newman, 
and  Frank  Harris  was  in  the  room,  and  heard 
him.  He  says  they're  picked  out,  and  all  ready 
to  come!" 

"And  what  does  Mr.  Oliver  say?"  asked  Mrs. 
Cudahy,  whose  face  had  grown  dark. 

"I  don't  know!  I  went  up  to  the  Hall,  but  at  the 
first  word  he  says,  'For  God's  sake,  George — None  of 
that  here!  They'll  mob  the  old  man  if  they  hear  it!' 
They  was  all  crowding  about  him,  so  I  quit." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Cudahy,  considering,  "there's  to 
be  a  conference  at  six-thirty,  but  befoor  that,  Mr. 
Oliver  and  Clem  and  Rassette  and  Weidermeyer  are 
going  to  meet  t'gether  in  Mr.  Oliver's  room  at  Ras- 
sette's  house.  Ye  c'n  see  them  there." 

"Well,  maybe  I  will,"  said  George,  softening,  as  he 
left  them. 

"What's  the  conference  about?"  asked  Susan  pleas- 
antly. 

"What's  the — don't  tell  me  ye  don't  know  that!" 
Mrs.  Cudahy  said,  eying  her  shrewdly. 

"I  knew  there  was  a  strike "  Susan  began 

ashamedly. 

"Sure,  there's  a  strike,"  Mrs.  Cudahy  agreed,  with 
quiet  grimness,  and  under  her  breath  she  added  heav- 
ily, "Sure  there  is!" 

"And  are  Mr.  Oliver's — are  the  men  out?"  Susan 
asked. 

"There's  nine  hundred  men  out,"  Mrs.  Cudahy  told 
her,  coldly. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  453 

"Nine  hundred!"  Susan  stopped  short.  "But  Billy's 
not  responsible  for  all  that!"  she  added,  presently. 

"I  don't  know  who  is,  then,"  Mrs.  Cudahy  admitted 
grimly. 

"But — but  he  never  had  more  than  thirty  or  forty 
men  under  him  in  his  life!"  Susan  said  eagerly.  I 

"Oh?  Well,  maybe  he  doesn't  know  anything  about 
it,  thin!"  Mrs.  Cudahy  agreed  with  magnificent  con- 
tempt. 

But  her  scorn  was  wasted  upon  another  Irishwoman. 
Susan  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  then  the  dimples 
came  into  view,  and  she  burst  into  her  infectious 
laughter. 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  to  be  so  mean!"  laughed 
Susan.  "Won't  you  tell  me  about  it?" 

Mrs.  Cudahy  laughed  too,  a  little  out  of  counte- 
nance. 

"I  misdoubt  me  you're  a  very  bad  lot!"  said  she,  in 
high  good  humor,  "but  'tis  no  joke  for  the  boys,"  she 
went  on,  sobering  quickly.  "They  wint  on  strike  a 
week  ago.  Mr.  Oliver  presided  at  a  meeting  two 
weeks  come  Friday  night,  and  the  next  day  the  boys 
went  out!" 

"What  for?"  asked  Susan. 

"For  pay,  and  for  hours,"  the  older  woman  said. 
"They  want  regular  pay  for  overtime,  wanst-and-a-half 
regular  rates.  And  they  want  the  Chinymen  to  go, — 
sure,  they  come  in  on  every  steamer,"  said  Mrs.  Cud- 
ahy indignantly,  "and  they'll  work  twelve  hours  for 
two  bits!  Bether  hours,"  she, went  on,  checking  off 
the  requirements  on  fat,  square  fingers,  "overtime  pay, 
no  Chinymen,  and — and — oh,  yes,  a  risin'  scale  of 
wages,  if  you  know  what  that  is?  And  last,  they 
want  the  union  recognized!" 

"Well,  that's  not  much !"  Susan  said  generously. 
"Will  they  get  it?" 

"The  old  man  is  taking  his  time,"  Mrs.  Cudahy's 
lips  shut  in  a  worried  line.  "There's  no  reason  they 
shouldn't,"  she  resumed  presently,  "We're  the  only 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

open  shop  in  this  part  of  the  world,  now.  The  big 
works  has  acknowledged  the  union,  and  there's  no 
reason  why  this  wan  shouldn't!" 

"And  Billy,  is  he  the  one  they  talk  to,  the  Car- 
penters I  mean — the  authorities?"  asked  Susan. 

"They  wouldn't  touch  Mr.  William  Oliver  wid  a 
ten-foot  pole,"  said  Mrs.  Cudahy  proudly.  "Not  they ! 
Half  this  fuss  is  because  they  want  to  get  rid  of  him 
— they  want  him  out  of  the  way,  d'ye  see?  No,  he 
talks  to  the  committee,  and  thin  they  meet  with  the 
committee.  My  husband's  on  it,  and  Lizzie's  Joe  goes 
along  to  report  what  they  do." 

"But  Billy  has  a  little  preliminary  conference  in 
his  room  first?"  Susa'n  asked. 

"He  does,"  the  other  assented,  with  a  chuckle. 
"He'll  tell  thim  what  to  say!  He's  as  smart  as  old 
Carpenter  himself!"  said  Mrs.  Cudahy,  "he's  prisidint 
of  the  local;  Clem  says  he'd  ought  to  bevKing!'  And 
Susan  was  amazed  to  notice  that  the  strong  old  mouth 
was  trembling  with  emotion,  and  the  fine  old  eyes 
dimmed  with  tears.  "The  crowd  av  thim  wud  lay 
down  their  lives  for  him,  so  they  would!"  said  Mrs. 
Cudahy. 

"And — and  is  there  much  suffering  yet?"  Susan 
asked  a  little  timidly.  This  cheery,  sun-bathed  scene 
was  not  quite  her  idea  of  a  labor  strike. 

"Well,  some's  always  in  debt  and  trouble  anny- 
way,"  Mrs.  Cudahy  said,  temperately,  "and  of  course 
'tis  the  worse  for  thim  now !" 

She  led  Susan  across  an  unpaved,  deeply  rutted 
street,  and  opened  a  stairway  door,  next  to  a  saloon 
entrance. 

Susan  was  glad  to  have  company  on  the  bare  and 
gloomy  stairs  they  mounted.  Mrs.  Cudahy  opened  a 
double-door  at  the  top,  and  they  looked  into  the  large 
smoke-filled  room  that  was  the  "Hall." 

It  was  a  desolate  and  uninviting  room,  with  spirals 
of  dirty,  colored  tissue-paper  wound  about  the  gas- 
fixtures,  sunshine  streaming  through  the  dirty,  specked 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  455 

windows,  chairs  piled  on  chairs  against  the  long  walls, 
and  cuspidors  set  at  regular  intervals  along  the  floor. 
There  was  a  shabby  table  set  at  a  platform  at  one  end. 

About  this  table  was  a  group  of  men,  talking  eagerly 
and  noisily  to  Billy  Oliver,  who  stood  at  the  table 
looking  abstractedly  at  various  letters  and  papers. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  women,  the  talk  died  away. 
Mrs.  Cudahy  was  greeted  with  somewhat  sheepish 
warmth;  the  vision  of  an  extremely  pretty  girl  in  Mrs. 
Cudahy's  care  seemed  to  affect  these  vociferous  labor- 
ers profoundly.  They  began  confused  farewells,  and 
melted  away. 

"All  right,  old  man,  so  long!"  "I'll  see  you  later, 
Oliver,"  "That  was  about  all,  Billy,  I  must  be  getting 
along,"  "Good-night,  Billy,  you  know  where  I  am  if 
you  want  me!"  "I'll  see  you  later, — good-night,  sir!" 

"Hello,  Mrs.  Cudahy— hello,  Susan!"  said  Billy, 
discovering  them  with  the  obvious  pleasure  a  man 
feels  when  unexpectedly  confronted  by  his  womenkind. 
"I  think  you  were  a  peach  to  do  that,  Sue!"  he  said 
gratefully,  when  the  special  delivery  letter  had  been 
read.  "Now  I  can  get  right  at  it,  to-morrow! — Say, 
wait  a  minute,  Clem " 

He  caught  by  the  arm  an  old  man, — larger,  more 
grizzled,  even  more  blue  of  eye  than  was  Susan's  new 
friend,  his  wife, — and  presented  her  to  Mr.  Cudahy. 

" My  adopted  sister,  Clem !    Sue,  he's  about  as 

good  as  they  come!" 

"Sister,  is  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Cudahy,  "Whin  I  last 
heard  it  was  cousin !  What  do  you  know  about  that, 
Clem?" 

"Well,  that  gives  you  a  choice!"  said  Susan, 
laughing. 

"Then  I'll  take  the  Irishman's  choice,  and  have 
something  different  entirely!"  the  old  woman  said,  in 
great  good  spirits,  as  they  all  went  down  the  stairs. 

"I'll  take  me  own  gir'rl  home,  and  give  you  two  a 
chanst,"  said  Clem,  in  the  street.  "That'll  suit  you, 
Wil'lum,  I  dunno?" 


456  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"You  didn't  ask  if  it  would  suit  me,"  sparkled  Susar 
Brown. 

"Well,  that's  so!"  he  said  delightedly,  stopping 
short  to  scratch  his  head,  and  giving  her  a  rueful 
smile.  "Sure,  I'm  that  popular  that  there  never  was 
a  divvle  like  me  at  all !" 

"You  get  out,  and  leave  my  girl  alone  1"  said  Wil- 
^  liam,  with  a  shove.  And  his  tired  face  brightened 
"*  wonderfully,  as  he  slipped  his  hand  under  Susan's  arm. 

"Now,  Sue,"  he  said  contentedly,  "we'll  go  straight 
to  Rassette's — but  wait  a  minute — I've  got  to  tele- 
phone!" 

Susan  stood  alone  on  the  corner,  quite  as  a  matter 
of  course,  while  he  dashed  into  a  saloon.  In  a  mo- 
ment he  was  back,  introducing  her  to  a  weak-looking, 
handsome  young  man,  who,  after  a  few  wistful  glances 
back  toward  the  swinging  door,  walked  away  with 
them,  and  was  presently  left  in  the  care  of  a  busily 
cooking  little  wife  and  a  fat  baby.  Billy  was  stopped 
and  addressed  on  all  sides.  Susan  found  it  pleasantly 
exciting  to  be  in  his  company,  and  his  pleasure  in 
showing  her  this  familiar  environment  was  unmis- 
takable. 

"Everything's  rotten  and  upset  now,"  said  Billy,  de- 
lighted with  her  friendly  interest  and  sympathy.  "You 
ought  to  see  these  people  when  they  aren't  on  strike! 
Now,  let's  see,  it's  five  thirty.  I'll  tell  you,  Sue,  if 
you'll  miss  the  seven-five  boat,  I'll  just  wait  here  until 
we  get  the  news  from  the  conference,  then  I'll  blow 
you  to  Zink's  best  dinner,  and  take  you  home  on  the 
ten-seventeen." 

"Oh,  Bill,  forget  me!"  she  said,  concerned  for  his 
obvious  fatigue,  for  his  face  was  grimed  with  perspir- 
ation and  very  pale.  "I  feel  like  a  fool  to  have  come 
in  on  you  when  you're  so  busy  and  so  distressed !  Any- 
thing will  be  all  right " 

"Sue,  I  wouldn't  have  had  you  miss  this  for  a  mil- 
lion, if  you  can  only  get  along,  somehow!"  he  said 
eagerly.  "Some  other  time " 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  457 

"Oh,  Billy,  don't  bother  about  me!"  Susan  dis- 
missed herself  with  an  impatient  little  jerk  of  her  head. 
"Does  this  new  thing  worry  you?"  she  asked. 

"What  new  thing?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"Why,  this — this  plan  of  Mr.  Carpenter's  to  bring 
a  train-load  of  men  on  from  Philadelphia,"  said  Susan, 
half-proud  and  half-frightened. 

"Who  said  so?"  he  demanded  abruptly. 

"Why,  I  don't  know  his  name, -Billy — yes  I  do,  tool 
Mrs.  Cudahy  called  him  Jarge 

"George  Weston,  that  was !"  Billy's  eyes  gleamed. 
"What  else  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  a  man  named  Edward  Harris " 

"Sure  it  wasn't  Frank  Harris?" 

"Frank  Harris — that  was  it!  He  said  Harris  over- 
heard him — or  heard  him  say  so!" 

"Harris  didn't  hear  anything  that  the  old  man  didn't 
mean  to  have  him  hear,"  said  Billy  grimly.  "But  that 
only  makes  it  the  more  probably  true!  Lord,  Lord, 
I  wonder  where  I  can  get  hold  of  Weston!" 

"He's  going  to  be  at  that  conference,  at  half-past 
five,"  Susan  assured  him.  He  gave  her  an  amused  look. 

"Aren't  you  the  little  Foxy-Quiller!"  he  said. 
"Gosh,  I  do  love  to  have  you  out  here,  Sue!"  he 
added,  grinning  like  a  happy  small  boy.  "This  is 
Rassette's,  where  I'm  staying,"  he  said,  stopping  be- 
fore the  very  prettiest  and  gayest  of  little  gardens. 
"Come  in  and  meet  Mrs.  Rassette." 

Susan  went  in  to  meet  the  blonde,  pretty,  neatly 
aproned  little  lady  of  the  house. 

"The  boys  already  are  upstairs,  Mr.  Oliver,"  said 
Mrs.  Rassette,  and  as  Billy  went  up  the  little  stair- 
way with  flying  leaps,  she  led  Susan  into  her  clean 
little  parlor.  Susan  noticed  a  rug  whose  design  was 
an  immense  brown  dog,  a  lamp  with  a  green,  rose- 
wreathed  shade,  a  carved  wooden  clock,  a  little  ma- 
hogany table  beautifully  inlaid  with  white  holly,  an 
enormous  pair  of  mounted  antlers,  and  a  large  con- 
certina, ornamented  with  a  mosaic  design  in  mother-of- 


458  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

pearl.  The  wooden  floor  here,  and  in  the  hall,  was 
unpainted,  but  immaculately  clean  and  the  effect  of  the 
whole  was  clean  and  gay  and  attractive. 

"You  speak  very  wonderful  English  for  a  foreigner, 
Mrs.  Rassette." 

"I?"  The  little  matron  showed  her  white  teeth. 
"But  I  was  born  in  New  Jersey,"  she  explained,  "only 
when  I  am  seven  my  Mama  sends  me  home  to  my 
Grandma,  so  that  I  shall  know  our  country.  It  is  a 
better  country  for  the  working  people,"  she  added, 
with  a  smile,  and  added  apologetically,  "I  must  look 
into  my  kitchen;  I  am  afraid  my  boy  shall  fall  out  of 
his  chair." 

"Oh,  let's  go  out!"  Susan  followed  her  into  a  kitchen 
as  spotless  as  the  rest  of  the  house,  and  far  more 
attractive.  The  floor  was  cream-white,  the  woodwork 
and  the  tables  white,  and  immaculate  blue  saucepans 
hung  above  an  immaculate  sink. 

Three  babies,  the  oldest  five  years  old,  were  eating 
their  supper  in  the  evening  sunshine,  and  now  fixed 
their  solemn  blue  eyes  upon  the  guest.  Susan  thought 
they  were  the  cleanest  babies  she  had  ever  seen; 
through  their  flaxen  mops  she  could  see  their  clean 
little  heads,  their  play-dresses  were  protected  by 
checked  gingham  aprons  worked  in  cross-stitch  designs. 
Marie  and  Mina  and  Ernie  were  kissed  in  turn,  after 
their  mother  had  wiped  their  rosy  little  faces  with  a 
damp  cloth. 

"I  am  baby-mad!"  said  Susan,  sitting  down  with 
the  baby  in  her  lap.  "A  strike  is  pretty  hard,  when 
you  have  these  to  think  of,  isn't  it?"  she  asked  sym- 
pathetically. 

"Yes,  we  don't  wish  that  we  should  move,"  Mrs. 
Rassette  agreed  placidly,  "We  have  been  here  now 
four  years,  and  next  year  it  is  our  hope  that  we  go  to 
our  ranch." 

"Oh,  have  you  a  ranch?"  asked  Susan. 

"We  are  buying  a  little  ranch,  in  the  Santa  Clara 
valley,"  the  other  woman  said,  drawing  three  bubbling 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  459 

saucepans  forward  on  her  shining  little  range.  "We 
have  an  orchard  there,  and  there  is  a  town  nearby 
where  Joe  shall  have  a  shop  of  his  own.  And  there 
is  a  good  school !  But  until  my  Marie  is  seven,  we 
think  we  shall  stay  here.  So  I  hope  the  strike  will 
stop.  My  husband  can  always  get  work  in  Los  An- 
geles, but  it  is  so  far  to  move,  if  we  must  come  back 
next  year!" 

Susan  watched  her,  serenely  beginning  to  prepare 
the  smallest  girl  for  bed;  the  helpful  Marie  trotting 
to  and  fro  with  nightgowns  and  slippers.  All  the 
while  the  sound  of  men's  voices  had  been  rising  and 
falling  steadily  in  an  upstairs  room.  Presently  they 
heard  the  scraping  of  chairs  on  a  bare  floor,  and  a 
door  slammed. 

Billy  Oliver  put  his  head  into  the  kitchen.  He 
looked  tired,  but  smiled  when  he  saw  Susan  with  the 
sleepy  baby  in  her  lap. 

"Hello,  Sue,  that  your  oldest?  Come  on,  woman, 
the  Cudahys  expect  us  to  dinner,  and  we've  not  got 
much  time !" 

Susan  kissed  the  baby,  and  walked  with  him  to  the 
end  of  the  block,  and  straight  through  the  open  door 
of  the  Cudahy  cottage,  and  into  the  kitchen.  Here 
they  found  Mrs.  Cudahy,  dashing  through  prepara- 
tions for  a  meal  whose  lavishness  startled  Susan. 
Bottles  of  milk  and  bottles  of  cream  stood  on  the 
table,  Susan  fell  to  stripping  ears  of  corn;  there  were 
pop-overs  in  the  oven;  Mrs.  Cudahy  was  frying  chick- 
ens at  the  stove.  Enough  to  feed  the  Carroll  family, 
under  their  mother's  exquisite  management,  for  a 
week! 

There  was  no  management  here.  A  small,  freckled 
and  grinning  boy  known  as  "Maggie's  Tim"  came 
breathless  from  the  grocery  with  a  great  bottle  of 
fancy  pickles;  Billy  brought  up  beer  from  the  cellar; 
Clem  Cudahy  cut  a  thick  slice  of  butter  from  a  two- 
pound  square,  and  helped  it  into  the  serving-dish  with 
a  pudgy  thumb.  A  large  fruit  pie  and  soda  crackers 


460  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

were  put  on  the  table  with  the  main  course,  when 
they  sat  down,  hungry  and  talkative. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  Ironworks  Row?" 
asked  Billy,  at  about  seven  o'clock,  when  the  other  men 
had  gone  off  to  the  conference,  and  Susan  was  help- 
ing Mrs.  Cudahy  in  the  kitchen. 

)  "Oh,  I  like  it!  Susan  assured  him,  enthusiastically. 
"Only,"  she  added  in  a  lowered  tone,  with  a  glance 
toward  Mrs.  Cudahy,  who  was  out  in  the  yard  talk- 
ing to  Lizzie,  "only  I  prefer  the  Rassette  establish- 
ment to  any  I've  seen!" 

"The  Rassettes,"  he  told  her,  significantly,  "are 
trained  for  their  work;  she  just  as  much  as  he  is!  Do 
you  wonder  I  think  it's  worth  while  to  educate  people 
like  that?" 

"But  Billy — everyone  seems  so  comfortable.  The 
Cudahys,  now, — why,  this  dinner  was  fit  for  a  king — 
if  it  had  been  served  a  little  differently!" 

"Oh,  Clem's  a  rich  man,  as  these  men  go,"  Billy 
said.  "He's  got  two  flats  he  rents,  and  he's  got  stock! 
And  they've  three  married  sons,  all  prosperous." 

"Well,  then,  why  do  they  live  here?" 

"Why  wouldn't  they?  You  think  that  it's  far  from 
clubs  and  shops  and  theaters  and  libraries,  but  they 
don't  care  for  these  things.  They've  never  had  time 
for  them,  they've  never  had  time  to  garden,  or  go  to 
clubs,  and  consequently  they  don't  miss  them.  But 
some  day,  Sue,"  said  Billy,  with  a  darkening  face, 
"some  day,  when  these  people  have  the  assurance  that 
their  old  age  is  to  be  protected  and  when  they  have 
easier  hours,  and  can  get  home  in  daylight,  then  you'll 
see  a  change  in  laborers'  houses!" 

"And  just  what  has  a  strike  like  this  to  do  with 
that,  Billy?"  said  Susan,  resting  her  cheek  on  her 
broom  handle. 

"Oh,  it's  organization;  it's  recognition  of  rights;  it's 
the  beginning!"  he  said.  "We  have  to  stand  before 
we  can  walk!" 

"Here,  don't  do  that!"  said  Mrs.  Cudahy,  coming 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  461 

in  to  take  away  the  broom.  "Take  her  for  a  walk, 
Billy,"  said  she,  "and  show  her  the  neighborhood." 
She  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Now,  don't 
ye  worry  about  the  men  coming  back,"  said  she  kindly, 
"they'll  be  back  fast  enough,  and  wid  good  news,  too  !" 

"I'm  going  to  stay  overnight  with  Mrs.  Cudahy," 
said  Susan,  as  they  walked  away. 

"You  are!"  he  stopped  short,  in  amazement. 

"Yes,  I  am  I"  Susan  returned  his  smile  with  an- 
other. "I  could  no  more  go  home  now  than  after 
the  first  act  of  a  play!"  she  confessed. 

"Isn't  it  damned  interesting?"  he  said,  walking  on. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  said.  "It's  real  at  last — it's  the 
realest  thing  I  ever  saw  in  my  life!  Everything's  right 
on  the  surface,  and  all  kept  within  certain  boundaries. 
In  other  places,  people  come  and  go  in  your  lives. 
Here,  everybody's  your  neighbor.  I  like  it!  It  could 
be  perfect;  just  fancy  if  the  Carrolls  had  one  house, 
and  you  another,  and  I  a  third,  and  Phil  and  his  wife 
a  fourth — wouldn't  it  be  like  children  playing  house! 
And  there's  another  thing  about  it,  Billy,"  Susan  went 
on  enthusiastically,  "it's  honest!  These  people  are 
really  worried  about  shoes  and  rent  and  jobs — there's 
no  money  here  to  keep  them  from  feeling  everything! 
Think  what  a  farce  a  strike  would  be  if  every  man  in 
it  had  lots  of  money!  People  with  money  can't  get 
the  taste  of  really  living!" 

"Ah,  well,  there's  a  lot  of  sin  and  wretchedness 
here  now!"  he  said  sadly.  "Women  drinking — men 
acting  like  brutes!  But  some  day,  when  the  liquor 
traffic  is  regulated,  and  we  have  pension  laws,  and 
perhaps  the  single  tax " 

"And  the  Right-Reverend  William  Lord  Oliver, 
R.  I.,  in  the  Presidential  Chair,  hooray  and  Glory  be 
to  God !"  Susan  began. 

"Oh,  you  dry  up,  Susan,"  Billy  said  laughing.  "I 
don't  care,"  he  added  contentedly.  "I  like  to  be  at 
the  bottom  of  things,  shoving  up.  And  my  Lord,  if 
we  only  pull  this  thing  off !" 


462  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"It's  not  my  preconceived  idea  of  a  strike,"  Susan 
said,  after  a  moment's  silence.  "I  thought  one  had 
to  throw  coal,  and  run  around  the  streets  with  a  shawl 
over  one's  head " 

"In  the  east,  where  the  labor  is  foreign,  that's  about 
it,"  he  said,  "but  here  we  have  American-born  labor- 
ers, asking  for  their  rights.  And  I  believe  it's  all 
coming!" 

"But  with  ignorance  and  inefficiency  on  one  hand, 
and  graft  and  cruelty  on  the  other,  and  drink  and 
human  nature  and  poverty  adding  their  complications, 
it  seems  rather  a  big  job !"  Susan  said.  "Now,  look 
at  these  small  kids  out  of  bed  at  this  hour  of  night, 
Bill!  And  what  are  they  eating? — Boiled  crabs!  And 
notice  the  white  stockings — I  never  had  a  pair  in  my 
life,  yet  every  kidlet  on  the  block  is  wearing  them. 
And  look  upstairs  there,  with  a  bed  still  airing!" 

uThe  wonder  is  that  it's  airing  at  all,"  Billy  said 
absently.  "Is  that  the  boys  coming  back?"  he  asked 
sharply. 

"Now,  Bill,  why  do  you  worry ?"  But  Susan 

knew  it  was  useless  to  scold  him.  They  went  quietly 
back,  and  sat  on  Mrs.  Cudahy's  steps,  and  waited  for 
news.  All  Ironworks  Row  waited.  Down  the  street 
Susan  could  see  silent  groups  on  nearly  every  door- 
step. It  grew  very  dark;  there  was  no  moon,  but 
the  sky  was  thickly  strewn  with  stars. 

It  was  after  ten  o'clock  when  the  committee  came 
back.  Susan  knew,  the  moment  that  she  saw  the  three, 
moving  all  close  together,  silently  and  slowly,  that  they 
brought  no  good  news. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  brought  almost  no  news 
at  all.  They  went  into  Clem  Cudahy's  dining-room, 
and  as  many  men  and  women  as  could  crowded  in 
after  them.  Billy  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

Carpenter,  the  "old  man"  himself,  had  stuck  to  his 
guns,  Clem  Cudahy  said.  He  was  the  obstinate  one; 
the  younger  men  would  have  conceded  something,  if 
not  everything,  long  ago.  But  the  old  man  had  said 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  468 

that  he  would  not  be  dictated  to  by  any  man  alive,  and 
if  the  men  wanted  to  listen  to  an  ignorant  young  en- 
thusiast  

"Three  cheers  for  Mr.  Oliver!"  said  a  strong  young 
voice,  at  this  point,  and  the  cheers  were  given  and 
echoed  in  the  street,  although  Billy  frowned,  and  said 
gruffly,  "Oh,  cut  it  out!" 

It  was  a  long  evening.  Susan  began  to  think  that 
they  would  talk  forever.  But,  at  about  eleven  o'clock, 
the  men  who  had  been  streaming  in  and  out  of  the 
house  began  to  disperse,  and  she  and  Mrs.  Cudahy 
went  into  the  kitchen,  and  made  a  pot  of  coffee. 

Susan,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  poured  if, 
and  seasoned  it  carefully. 

"You  are  going  to  be  well  cared  for,  Mr.  Oliver," 
»aid  Ernest  Rassette,  in  his  careful  English. 

"No  such  luck!"  Billy  said,  smiling  at  Susan,  as  he 
emptied  his  cup  at  a  draught.  "Well!  I  don't  know 
that  we  do  any  good  sitting  here.  Things  seem  to  be 
at  a  deadlock." 

"What  do  they  concede,  Bill  ?"  Susan  asked. 

"Oh,  practically  everything  but  the  recognition  of 
the  union.  At  least,  Carpenter  keeps  saying  that  if 
this  local  agitation  was  once  wiped  out, — which  is  me ! 
— then  he'd  talk.  He  doesn't  love  me,  Sue." 

"Damn  him!"  said  one  of  his  listeners,  a  young 
man  who  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"It's  after  twelve,"  Billy  said,  yawning.  "Me  to 
the  hay!  Goodnight,  everyone;  goodnight,  Sue!" 

"And  annywan  that  cud  get  a  man  like  that,  and 
doesn't,"  said  Mrs.  Cudahy  when  he  was  gone,  "must 
be  lookin'  for  a  saint  right  out  av  the  lit'ny!" 

"I  never  heard  of  any  girl  refusing  Mr.  Oliver," 
Susan  said  demurely. 

She  awoke  puzzled,  vaguely  elated.  Sunshine  was 
streaming  in  at  the  window,  an  odor  of  coffee,  of 
bacon,  of  toast,  drifted  up  from  below.  Susan  had 
slept  well.  She  performed  the  limited  toilet  necessi- 
tated by  a  basin  and  pitcher,  a  comb  somewhat  beyond 


464  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

its  prime,  and  a  mirror  too  full  of  sunlight  to  be 
flattering. 

But  it  was  evidently  satisfactory,  for  Clem  Cudahy 
told  her,  as  she  went  smiling  into  the  kitchen,  that  she 
looked  like  a  streak  of  sunlight  herself.  Sunlight  was 
needed;  it  was  a  worried  and  anxious  day  for  them  all. 

Susan  went  with  Lizzie  to  see  the  new  Conover 
baby,  and  stopped  on  the  way  back  to  be  introduced 
to  Mrs.  Jerry  Nelson,  who  had  been  stretched  on  her 
bed  for  eight  long  years.  Mrs.  Nelson's  bright  little 
room  was  easily  accessible  from  the  street;  the  alert 
little  suffering  woman  was  never  long  alone. 

"I  have  to  throw  good  soup  out,  the  way  it  spoils 
on  me,"  said  Mrs.  Nelson's  daughter  to  Susan,  "and 
there's  nobody  round  makes  cake  or  custard  but  what 
Mama  gets  some!" 

"I'm  a  great  one  for  making  friends,"  the  invalid 
assured  her  happily.  "I  don't  miss  nothing!" 

"And  after  all  I  don't  see  why  such  a  woman  isn't 
better  off  than  Mary  Lord,"  said  Susan  later  to  Billy, 
"so  much  nearer  the  center  of  things !  Of  course," 
she  told  him  that  afternoon,  "I  ought  to  go  home  to- 
day. But  I'm  too  interested.  I  simply  can't!  What 
happens  next?" 

"Oh,  waiting,"  he  said  wearily.  "We  have  a  mass 
meeting  this  afternoon.  But  there's  nothing  to  do  but 
wait!"  ^ 

Waiting  was  indeed  the  order  of  the  day.  The 
whole  colony  waited.  It  grew  hotter  and  hotter;  flies 
buzzed  in  and  out  of  the  open  doorways,  children 
fretted  and  shouted  in  the  shade.  Susan  had  seen  no 
drinking  the  night  before;  but  now  she  saw  more  than 
one  tragedy.  The  meeting  at  three  o'clock  ended  in  a 
more  grim  determination  than  ever;  the  men  began 
to  seem  ugly.  Sunset  brought  a  hundred  odors  of 
food,  and  unbearable  heat. 

"I've  got  to  walk  some  of  this  off,"  said  Billy,  rest- 
lessly, just  before  dark.  "Come  on  up  and  see  the 
cabbage  gardens!" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  465 

Susan  pinned  on  her  wide  hat,  joined  him  in  silence, 
and  still  in  silence  they  threaded  the  path  that  led 
through  various  dooryards  and  across  vacant  lots,  and 
took  a  rising  road  toward  the  hills. 

The  stillness  and  soft  dusk  were  very  pleasant  to 
Susan;  she  could  find  a  beauty  in  carrot-tops  and  beet 
greens,  and  grew  quite  rapturous  over  a  cow. 

"Doesn't  the  darling  look  comfortable  and  country- 
ish,  Bill?" 

Billy  interrupted  his  musing  to  give  her  an  absent 
smile.  They  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  lumber,  and  watched 
the  summer  moon  rise  gloriously  over  the  hills. 

"Doesn't  it  seem  funny  to  you  that  we're  right  in 
the  middle  of  a  strike,  Bill?"  Susan  asked  childishly. 

-Funny !     Oh,  Lord!" 

"Well -"  Susan  laughed  at  herself,  "I  didn't 

mean  funny!  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  do  in  your 
place,"  she  added  thoughtfully. 

Billy  glanced  at  her  quickly. 

"What  you'd  do?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"Certainly!  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  as  a  dis- 
passionate outsider,"  Susan  explained  calmly. 

"Well,  go  on,"  he  said,  grinning  indulgently. 

"Well,  I  will,"  Susan  said,  firing,  "if  you'll  treat 
me  seriously,  and  not  think  that  I  say  this  merely  be- 
cause the  Carrolls  want  you  to  go  camping  with  us! 

I  was  just  thinking "  Susan  smiled  bashfully,  "I 

was  wondering  why  you  don't  go  to  Carpenter " 

"He  won't  see  me!" 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean!"  she  said  impa- 
tiently. "Send  your  committee  to  him,  and  make  him 
this  proposition.  Say  that  if  he'll  recognize  the  union 
—that's  the  most  important  thing,  isn't  it?" 

"That's  by  far  the  most  important!  All  the  rest 
will  follow  if  we  get  that.  But  he's  practically  willing 
to  grant  all  the  rest,  except  the  union.  That's  the 
whole  point,  Sue!" 

"I  know  it  is,  but  listen.  Tell  him  that  if  he'll  con- 
sent to  all  the  other  conditions — why,"  Susan  spread 


466  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

open  her  hands  with  a  shrug,  "you'll  get  out!  Bill, 
you  know  and  I  know  that  what  he  hates  more  than 
anything  or  anybody  is  Mr.  William  Oliver,  and  he'd 
agree  to  almost  any  terms  for  the  sake  of  having  you 
eliminated  from  his  future  consideration!" 

"I — get  out?"  Billy  repeated  dazedly.  "Why,  I  am 
the  union!" 

"Oh,  no  you're  not,  Bill.  Surely  the  principles  in- 
volved are  larger  than  any  one  man!"  Susan  said 
pleasantly. 

"Well,  well — yes — that's  true!"  he  agreed,  after 
a  second's  silence.  "To  a  certain  extent — I  see  what 
you  mean! — that  is  true.  But,  Sue,  this  is  an  unusual 
case.  I  organized  these  boys,  I  talked  to  them,  and 
for  them.  They  couldn't  hold  together  without  me — 
they'll  tell  you  so  themselves !" 

"But,  Billy,  that's  not  logic.     Suppose  you  died?" 

"Well,  well,  but  by  the  Lord  Harry  I'm  not  going 
to  die!"  he  said  heatedly.  "I  propose  to  stick  right 
here  on  my  job,  and  if  they  get  a  bunch  of  scabs  in 
here  they  can  take  the  consequences !  The  hour  of 
organized  labor  has  come,  and  we'll  fight  the  thing 
out  along  these  lines " 

"Through  your  hat — that's  the  way  you're  talking 
now!"  Susan  said  scornfully.  "Don't  use  those  worn- 
out  phrases,  Bill;  don't  do  it!  I'm  sick  of  people  who 
live  by  a  bunch  of  expressions,  without  ever  stopping 
to  think  whether  they  mean  anything  or  not!  You're 
too  big  and  too  smart  for  that,  Bill !  Now,  here  you've 
given  the  cause  a  splendid  push  up,  you've  helped  these 
particular  men!  Now  go  somewhere  else,  and  stir  up 
more  trouble.  They'll  find  someone  to  carry  it  on, 
don't  you  worry,  and  meanwhile  you'll  be  a  sort  of 
idol — all  the  more  influential  for  being  a  martyr  to 
the  cause!" 

Billy  did  not  answer.  He  got  up  and  walked  away 
from  her,  turned,  and  came  slowly  back. 

"I've  been  here  ten  years,"  he  said  then,  and  at 
jthe  sound  of  pain  in  his  voice  the  girl's  heart  began 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  467 

to  ache  for  him.  "I  don't  believe  they'd  stand  for  it," 
he  added  presently,  with  more  hope.  And  finally, 
"And  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do!" 

"Well,  that  oughtn't  to  influence  you,"  Susan  said 
bracingly. 

"No,  you're  quite  right.  That's  not  the  point,"  he 
agreed  quickly. 

Presently  she  saw  him  lean  forward  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  put  his  head  in  his  hands.  Susan  longed  to 
put  her  arm  about  him,  and  draw  the  rough  head  to 
her  shoulder  and  comfort  him. 

At  breakfast  time  the  next  morning,  Billy  walked 
into  Mrs.  Cudahy's  dining-room,  very  white,  very  seri- 
ous, determined  lines  drawn  about  his  firm  young 
mouth.  Susan  looked  at  him,  half-fearful,  half- 
pitying. 

"How  late  did  you  walk,  Bill?"  she  asked,  for  he 
had  gone  out  again  after  bringing  her  back  to  the 
house  the  night  before. 

"I  didn't  go  to  bed,"  he  said  briefly.  He  sat  down 
by  the  table.  "Well,  I  guess  Miss  Brown  put  her 
finger  on  the  very  heart  of  the  matter,  Clem,"  said  he. 

"And  how's  that?"  asked  Clem  Cudahy.  His  wife, 
in  the  very  act  of  pouring  the  newcomer  a  cup  of 
coftee,  stopped  with  arrested  arm.  Susan  experienced 
a  sensation  of  panic. 

"Oh,  but  I  didn't  mean  anything!"  she  said  eagerly. 
"Don't  mind  what  I  said,  Bill!" 

But  the  matter  had  been  taken  out  of  her  hands 
now,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  the  news  spread  over 
the  entire  settlement.  Mr.  Oliver  was  going  to  resign ! 

The  rest  of  the  morning  and  the  early  afternoon 
went  by  in  a  confused  rush.  At  three  o'clock  Billy, 
surrounded  by  vociferous  allies,  walked  to  the  hall, 
for  a  stormy  and  exhausting  meeting. 

"The  boys  wouldn't  listen  to  him  at  all  at  first," 
said  Clem,  in  giving  the  women  an  account  of  it,  later. 
But  eventually  they  listened,  and  eventually  he  car- 


468  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

ried  the  day.  It  was  all  too  logical  to  be  ignored  and 
turned  aside,  he  told  them.  They  had  not  been  fight- 
ing for  any  personal  interest,  or  any  one  person.  They 
had  asked  for  this  change,  and  that,  and  the  other,— 
and  these  things  they  might  still  win.  He,  after  all, 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  issue ;  as  a  recognized  labor 
union  they  might  stand  on  their  own  feet. 

After  that  the  two  committees  met,  in  old  Mr.  Car- 
penter's office,  and  Billy  came  home  to  Susan  and  Mrs. 
Cudahy,  and  sat  for  a  tense  hour  playing  moodily  with 
Lizzie's  baby. 

Then  the  committee  came  back,  almost  as  silently 
as  it  had  come  last  night.  But  this  time  it  brought 
news.  The  strike  was  over. 

Very  quietly,  very  gravely,  they  made  it  known  that 
terms  had  been  reached  at  last.  Practically  everything 
had  been  granted,  on  the  single  condition  that  William 
Oliver  resign  from  his  position  in  the  Iron  Works,  and 
his'  presidency  of  the  union. 

Billy  congratulated  them.  Susan  knew  that  he  was 
so  emotionally  shaken,  and  so  tired,  as  to  be  scarcely 
aware  of  what  he  was  doing  and  saying.  Men  and 
women  began  to  come  in  and  discuss  the  great  news. 
There  were  some  tears;  there  was  real  grief  on  more 
than  one  of  the  hard  young  faces. 

"I'll  see  all  you  boys  again  in  a  day  or  two,"  Billy 
said.  "I'm  going  over  to  Sausalito  to-night, — I'm  all 
in !  We've  won,  and  that's  the  main  thing,  but  I  want 
you  to  let  me  off  quietly  to-night, — we  can  go  over 
the  whole  thing  later. 

"Gosh,  about  one  cheer,  and  I  would  have  broken' 
down  like  a  kid!"  he  said  to  Susan,  on  the  car.  Ras^ 
sette  and  Clem  had  escorted  them  thither;  Mrs.  Cud- 
ahy and  Lizzie  walking  soberly  behind  them,  with 
Susan.  Both  women  kissed  Susan  good-bye,  and  Susan 
smiled  through  her  tears  as  she  saw  the  last  of  them. 

"I'll  take  good  care  of  him,"  she  promised  the  old 
woman.  "He's  been  overdoing  it  too  long!" 

"Lord,  it  will  be  good  to  get  away  into  the  big 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  469 

woods,"  said  Billy.  "You're  quite  right,  I've  taken 
the  whole  thing  too  hard!" 

"At  the  same  time,"  said  Susan,  "you'll  want  to  get 
back  to  work,  sooner  or  later,  and,  personally,  I  can't 
imagine  anything  else  in  life  half  as  fascinating  as  work 
right  there,  among  those  people,  or  people  like  theml" 

"Then  you  can  see  how  it  would  cut  a  fellow  all  up 
to  leave  them?"  he  asked  wistfully. 

"See!"  Susan  echoed.  "Why,  I'm  just  about  half- 
sick  with  homesickness  myself!" 


CHAPTER   V 

THE  train  went  on  and  on  and  on;  through  woods 
wrapped  in  dripping  mist,  and  fields  smothered  in 
fog.  The  unseasonable  August  afternoon  wore  slowly 
away.  Betsey,  fitting  her  head  against  the  uncomfort- 
able red  velvet  back  of  the  seat,  dozed  or  seemed  to 
doze.  Mrs.  Carroll  opened  her  magazine  over  and 
over  again,  shut  it  over  and  over  again,  and  stared 
out  at  the  landscape,  eternally  slipping  by.  William 
Oliver,  seated  next  to  Susan,  was  unashamedly  asleep, 
and  Susan,  completing  the  quartette,  looked  dreamily 
from  face  to  face,  yawned  suppressedly,  and  wrestled 
with  'The  Right  of  Way." 

They  were  making  the  six  hours'  trip  to  the  big 
forest  for  a  month's  holiday,  and  it  seemed  to  each 
one  of  the  four  that  they  had  been  in  the  train  a  long, 
long  time.  In  the  racks  above  their  heads  were  coats 
and  cameras,  suit-cases  and  summer  hats,  and  a  long 
cardboard  box,  originally  intended  for  "Gents'  me- 
dium, ribbed,  white,"  but  now  carrying  fringed  nap- 
kins and  the  remains  of  a  luncheon. 

It  had  all  been  planned  a  hundred  times,  under  the 
big  lamp  in  the  Sausalito  sitting-room.  The  twelve 
o'clock  train — Farwoods  Station  at  five — an  hour's 
ride  in  the  stage — six  o'clock.  Then  they  would  be  at 
the  cabin,  and  another  hour — say — would  be  spent  in 
the  simplest  of  housewarming.  A  fire  must  be  built 
to  dry  bedding  after  the  long  months,  and  to  cook 
bacon  and  eggs,  and  just  enough  unpacking  to  find 
night-wear  and  sheets.  That  must  do  for  the  first 
night. 

"But  we'll  sit  and  talk  over  the  fire,"  Betsey  would 

470 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  471 

plead.  "Please,  Mother!  We'll  be  all  through  dinner 
at  eight  o'clock.!" 

The  train  however  was  late,  nearly  half-an-hour 
late,  when  they  reached  Farwoods.  The  stage,  pleas- 
ant enough  in  pleasant  weather,  was  disgustingly 
cramped  and  close  inside.  Susan  and  Betsey  were  both 
young  enough  to  resent  the  complacency  with  which 
Jimmy  climbed  up,  with  his  dog,  beside  the  driver. 

"You  let  him  stay  in  the  baggage-car  with  Baloo 
all  the  way,  Mother,"  Betts  reproached  her,  flinging 
herself  recklessly  into  the  coach,  "and  now  you're  let- 
ting him  ride  in  the  rain!" 

"Well,  stop  falling  over  everything,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  Betts!"  Susan  scolded.  "And  don't  step  on  the 
camera!  Don't  get  in,  Billy, — I  say  don't  get  in! 
Well,  why  don't  you  listen  ,o  me  then !  These  things 
are  all  over  the  floor,  and  I  have  to " 

"I  have  to  get  in,  it's  pouring, — don't  be  such  a 
crab,  Sue!"  Billy  said  pleasantly.  "Lord,  what's  that! 
What  did  I  break?" 

"That's  the  suitcase  with  the  food  in  it,"  Susan 
snapped.  "Please  wait  a  minute,  Betts! — All  right," 
finished  Susan  bitterly,  settling  herself  in  a  dark  cor- 
ner, "tramp  over  everything,  I  don't  care  1" 

"If  you  don't  care,  why  are  you  talking  about  it?" 
asked  Betts. 

"He  says  that  we'll  have  to  get  out  at  the  willows, 
and  walk  up  the  trail,"  said  Mrs.  Carroll,  bending 
her  tall  head,  as  she  entered  the  stage,  after  a  con- 
versation with  the  driver.  "Gracious  sakes,  how  things 
have  been  tumbled  in!  Help  me  pile  these  things  up, 
girls!" 

"I  was  trying  to,"  Susan  began  stiffly,  leaning  for- 
ward to  do  her  share.  A  sudden  jolt  of  the  starting 
stage  brought  her  head  against  Betts  with  a  violent  con- 
cussion. After  that  she  sat  back  in  magnificent  silence 
for  half  the  long  drive. 

They  jerked  and  jolted  on  the  uneven  roads,  the 
rain  was  coming  down  more  steadily  now,  and  finally 


472  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

even  Jimmy  and  the  shivering  Baloo  had  to  come  inside 
the  already  well-filled  stage. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  were  set  down  at  the 
foot  of  the  overgrown  trail,  and  started,  heavily 
loaded,  for  the  cabin.  Wind  sighed  and  swept  through 
the  upper  branches  of  the  forest,  boughs  creaked  and 
whined,  the  ground  underfoot  was  spongy  with  mois- 
ture, and  the  air  very  cold. 

The  cabin  was  dark  and  deserted  looking;  a  drift 
of  tiny  redwood  branches  carpeted  the  porch.  The 
rough  steps  ran  water.  Once  inside,  they  struck 
matches  and  lighted  a  candle. 

Cold,  darkness  and  disorder  everybody  had  expected 
to  find.  But  it  was  a  blow  to  discover  that  the  great 
stone  fireplace,  the  one  real  beauty  of  the  room,  and 
the  delight  of  every  chilly  evening,  had  been  brought 
down  by  some  winter  gale.  A  bleak  gap  marked  its 
once  hospitable  vicinity,  cool  air  rushed  in  where  the 
breath  of  dancing  flames  had  so  often  rushed  out,  and, 
some  in  a  great  heap  on  the  hearth,  and  some  flung 
in  muddy  confusion  to  the  four  corners  of  the  room, 
the  sooty  stones  lay  scattered. 

It  was  a  bad  moment  for  everyone.  Betsey  began 
to  cry,  her  weary  little  head  on  her  mother's  shoulder. 

"This  won't  do!"  Mrs.  Carroll  said  perplexedly. 
"B-r-r-r-r!  How  cold  it  is!" 

"This  is  rotten,"  Jimmy  said  bitterly.  "And  all 
the  fellows  are  going  to  the  Orpheum  to-night  too!" 
he  added  enviously. 

"It's  warm  here  compared  to  the  bedroom,"  Susan, 
who  had  been  investigating,  said  simply.  "The  blank" 
ets  feel  wet,  they're  so  cold!" 

"And  too  wet  for  a  camp-fire "  mused  the 

mother. 

"And  the  stage  gone!"  Billy  added. 

A  cold  draught  blew  open  the  door  and  set  the  candle 
guttering. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  cold!"  Susan  said,  hunching  herself  like 
a  sick  chicken. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  473 

The  rest  of  the  evening  became  family  history.  How 
they  took  their  camping  stove  and  its  long  tin  pipe 
from  the  basement,  and  set  it  up  in  the  woodshed  that, 
with  the  little  bedroom,  completed  the  cabin,  how  wood 
from  the  cellar  presently  crackled  within,  how  suit- 
cases were  opened  by  maddening  candle-light,  and  wet 
boots  changed  for  warm  slippers,  and  wet  gowns  for 
thick  wrappers.  How  the  kettle  sang  and  the  bacon 
hissed,  and  the  coffee-pot  boiled  over,  and  everybody 
took  a  turn  at  cutting  bread.  Deep  in  the  heart  of  the 
rain-swept,  storm-shaken  woods,  they  crowded  into  the 
tiny  annex,  warm  and  dry,  so  lulled  by  the  warm  meal 
and  the  warm  clothes  that  it  was  with  great  difficulty 
that  Mrs.  Carroll  roused  them  all  for  bed  at  ten 
o'clock. 

"I'm  going  to  sleep  with  you,  Sue,"  announced 
Betsey,  shivering,  and  casting  an  envious  glance  at  her 
younger  brother  who,  with  Billy,  was  to  camp  for  that 
night  in  the  kitchen,  "and  if  it's  like  this  to-morrow, 
I  vote  that  we  all  go  home!" 

But  they  awakened  in  all  the  fragrant  beauty  and 
stillness  of  a  great  forest,  on  a  heavenly  August  morn- 
ing. Sunshine  flooded  the  cabin,  when  Susan  opened 
her  eyes,  and  the  vista  of  redwood  boughs  beyond  the 
window  was  shot  with  long  lines  of  gold.  Everywhere 
were  sweetness  and  silence;  blots  of  bright  gold  on 
feathery  layers  of  soft  green.  High-arched  aisles 
stretched  all  about  the  cabin  like  the  spokes  of  a  great 
wheel;  warm  currents,  heavy  with  piney  sweetness, 
drifted  across  the  crystal  and  sparkling  brightness  of 
the  air.  The  rain  was  gone;  the  swelled  creek  rushed 
noisily  down  a  widened  course;  it  was  cool  now,  but 
the  day  would  be  hot.  Susan,  dressing  with  her  eyes 
on  the  world  beyond  the  window,  was  hastened  by  a 
sudden  delicious  odor  of  boiling  coffee,  and  the  delight- 
ful sound  of  a  crackling  wood  fire. 

Delightful  were  all  the  sights  and  sounds  and  duties 
of  the  first  days  in  camp.  There  must  be  sweeping, 


474  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

airing,  unpacking  in  the  little  domicile.  Someone  must 
walk  four  miles  to  the  general  store  for  salt,  and  more 
matches,  and  pancake  flour.  Someone  must  take  the 
other  direction,  and  climb  a  mile  of  mountain  every 
day  or  two  for  milk  and  eggs  and  butter.  The  spring 
must  be  cleared,  and  a  board  set  across  the  stream; 
logs  dragged  in  for  the  fire,  a  pantry  built  of  boxes, 
for  provisions,  and  ship-shape  disposition  made  of 
mugs  and  plates. 

Billy  sharpened  cranes  for  their  camp-kitchen,  swung 
the  kettles  over  a  stone-lined  depression,  erected  a  pro- 
tection of  flat  redwood  boughs.  And  under  his  direc- 
tion the  fireplace  was  rebuilt. 

"It  just  shows  what  you  can  do,  if  you  must!"  said 
Susan,  complacently  eying  the  finished  structure. 

"It's  handsomer  than  ever!"  Mrs.  Carroll  said. 
The  afternoon  sunlight  was  streaming  in  across  the 
newly  swept  hearth,  and  touching  to  brighter  colors 
the  Navajo  blanket  stretched  on  the  floor.  "And  now 
we  have  one  more  happy  association  with  the  camp!" 
she  finished  contentedly. 

"Billy  is  wishing  he  could  transfer  all  his  strikers 
up  here,"  said  Susan  dimpling.  "He  thinks  that  a 
hundred  miles  of  forest  are  too  much  for  just  a  few 
people!" 

"They  wouldn't  enjoy  it,"  he  answered  seriously, 
"they  have  had  no  practice  in  this  sort  of  life.  They'd 
hate  it.  But  of  course  it's  a  matter  of  education — 

"Help!  He's  off!"  said  the  irreverent  Susan,  "now 
he'll  talk  for  an  hour!  Come  on,  Betts,  I  have  to  go 
for  milk!" 

Exquisite  days  these  for  them  all,  days  so  brimming 
with  beauty  as  to  be  forever  memorable.  Susan  awoke 
every  morning  to  a  rushing  sense  of  happiness,  and 
danced  to  breakfast  looking  no  more  than  a  gay  child, 
in  her  bluejacket's  blouse,  with  her  bright  hair  in  a  thick 
braid.  Busy  about  breakfast  preparations,  and  inter- 
rupted by  a  hundred  little  events  in  the  forest  or  stream 
all  about  her,  Billy  would  find  her.  There  was  always 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  475 

a  moment  of  heat  and  hurry,  when  toast  and  oatmeal 
and  coffee  must  all  be  brought  to  completion  at  once, 
and  then  they  might  loiter  over  their  breakfast  as  long 
as  they  liked. 

Afterward,  Susan  and  Mrs.  Carroll  put  the  house 
in  order,  while  the  others  straightened  and  cleaned  the 
camp  outside.  Often  the  talks  between  the  two  women 
ran  far  over  the  time  their  work  filled,  and  Betsey 
would  come  running  in  to  ask  Mother  and  Susan  why 
they  were  laughing.  Laughter  was  everywhere,  not 
much  was  needed  to  send  them  all  into  gales  of  mirth. 

Usually  they  packed  a  basket,  gathered  the  stiff,  dry 
bathing  suits  from  the  grass,  and  lunched  far  up  in 
the  woods.  Fishing  gear  was  carried  along,  although 
the  trout  ran  small,  and  each  fish  provided  only  a 
buttery,  delicious  mouthful.  Susan  learned  to  swim 
and  was  more  proud  of  her  first  breathless  journey 
across  the  pool  than  were  the  others  with  all  their 
expert  diving  and  racing.  Mrs.  Carroll  swam  well, 
and  her  daughters  were  both  splendid  swimmers. 

After  the  first  dip,  they  lunched  on  the  hot  shingle, 
and  dozed  and  talked,  and  skipped  flat  stones  on  the 
water,  until  it  was  time  to  swim  again.  All  about  them 
the  scene  was  one  of  matchless  beauty.  Steep  banks., 
aquiver  with  ferns,  came  down  on  one  side  of  the  pool, 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  crystal  water;  on  the  other, 
long  arcades,  shot  with  mellow  sunlight,  stretched 
away  through  the  forest.  Bees  went  by  on  swift,  angry 
journeys,  and  dragon-flies  rested  on  the  stones  for  a 
few  dazzling  palpitating  seconds,  and  were  gone  again. 
Black  water-bugs  skated  over  the  shallows,  throwing 
round  shadows  on  the  smooth  floor  of  the  pool. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  the  campers  would  saunter 
home,  crossing  hot  strips  of  meadow,  where  they 
started  hundreds  of  locusts  into  flight,  or  plunging  into 
the  cool  green  of  twilight  woods.  Back  at  the  camp, 
there  would  be  the  crackle  of  wood  again,  with  all  the 
other  noises  of  the  dying  forest  day.  Good  odors 
drifted  about,  broiling  meat  and  cooking  wild  berries, 


476  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

chipmunks  and  gray  squirrels  and  jays  chattered  from 
the  trees  overhead;  there  was  a  whisking  of  daring 
tails,  a  flutter  of  bold  wings. 

Daylight  lasted  for  the  happy  meal,  and  stars  came 
out  above  their  camp-fire.  And  while  they  talked  or 
sang,  or  sat  with  serious  young  eyes  watching  the 
flames,  owls  called  far  away  through  the  wood,  birds 
chuckled  sleepily  in  the  trees,  and,  where  moonlight 
touched  the  stream,  sometimes  a  trout  rose  and 
splashed. 

When  was  it  that  Billy  always  began  to  take  his 
place  at  Susan's  side,  at  the  campfire,  their  shoulders 
almost  touching  in  the  dark?  When  was  it  that, 
through  all  the  careless,  happy  companionship  that 
bound  them  all,  she  began  to  know,  with  a  thrill  of 
joy  and  pain  at  her  heart,  that  there  were  special  looks 
for  her,  special  glad  tones  for  her?  She  did  not  know. 

But  she  did  know  that  suddenly  all  the  world  seemed 
Billy,— Billy's  arm  to  cross  a  stream,  Billy's  warning 
beside  the  swimming  pool,  Billy's  laughter  at  her  non- 
sense, and  Billy's  eyes  when  she  looked  up  from  mus- 
ing over  her  book  or  turned,  on  a  trail,  to  call  back 
to  the  others,  following  her.  She  knew  why  the  big 
man  stumbled  over  words,  grew  awkward  and  flushed 
when  she  turned  upon  him  the  sisterly  gaze  of  her 
blue  eyes. 

And  with  the  knowledge  life  grew  almost -unbear- 
ably sweet.  Susan  was  enveloped  in  some  strange 
golden  glory;  the  mere  brushing  of  her  hair,  or  shak- 
ing out  of  her  bathing-suit  became  a  rite,  something 
to  be  done  with  an  almost  suffocating  sense  of  sig- 
nificance. Everything  she  did  became  intensified,  her 
laughter  and  her  tears  were  more  ready,  her  voice  had 
new  and  sweeter  notes  in  it,  she  glowed  like  a  rose  in 
the  knowledge  that  he  thought  her  beautiful,  and  be- 
cause he  thought  her  sweet  and  capable  and  brave  she 
became  all  of  these  things. 

She  did  not  analyze  him;  he  was  different  from 
all  other  men,  he  stood  alone  among  them,  simply 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  477 

because  he  was  Billy.  He  was  tall  and  strong  and  clean 
of  heart  and  sunny  of  temper,  yes — but  with  these 
things  she  did  not  concern  herself, — he  was  poor,  too, 
he  was  unemployed,  he  had  neither  class  nor  influence 
to  help  him, — that  mattered  as  little. 

He  was  Billy, — genial  and  clever  and  good,  uncon- 
ventional, eager  to  learn,  full  of  simple  faith  in  human 
nature,  honest  and  unaffected  whether  he  was  dealing 
with  the  president  of  a  great  business,  or  teaching  Jim 
how  to  play  his  reel  for  trout, — and  he  had  her  whole 
heart.  Whether  she  was  laughing  at  his  arguments, 
agreeing  with  his  theories,  walking  silently  at  his  side 
through  the  woods,  or  watching  the  expressions  that 
followed  each  other  on  his  absorbed  face,  while  he 
cleaned  his  gun  or  scrutinized  the  detached  parts  of 
Mrs.  Carroll's  coffee-mill,  Susan  followed  him  with, 
eyes  into  which  a  new  expression  had  crept.  She 
watched  him  swimming,  flinging  back  an  arc  of  bright 
drops  with  every  jerk  of  his  sleek  wet  head;  she  bent 
her  whole  devotion  on  the  garments  he  brought  her  for 
buttons,  hoping  that  he  did  not  see  the  trembling  of 
her  hands,  or  the  rush  of  color  that  his  mere  nearness- 
brought  to  her  face.  She  thrilled  with  pride  when 
he  came  to  bashfully  consult  her  about  the  long  letters 
he  wrote  from  time  to  time  to  Clem  Cudahy  or  Joseph. 
Rassette,  listened  eagerly  to  his  talks  with  the  post- 
office  clerk,  the  store-keeper,  the  dairymen  and  ranch- 
ers up  on  the  mountain. 

And  always  she  found  him  good.  "Too  good  for 
me,"  said  Susan  sadly  to  herself.  "He  has  made  the 
best  of  everything  that  ever  came  his  way,  and  I  have 
been  a  silly  fool  whenever  I  had  half  a  chance." 

The  miracle  was  worked  afresh  for  them,  as  for 
all  lovers.  This  was  no  mere  attraction  between  a 
man  and  a  maid,  such  as  she  had  watched  all  her  life, 
Susan  thought.  This  was  some  new  and  rare  and  won- 
derful event,  as  miraculous  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  world 
as  it  was  to  her. 

"I  should  be  Susan  Oliver,"  she  thought  with  a  quick 


478  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

breath.  An  actual  change  of  name — how  did  other 
women  ever  survive  the  thrill  and  strangeness  of  it! 
"We  should  have  to  have  a  house,"  she  told  herself, 
lying  awake  one  night.  A  house — she  and  Billy  with 
a  tiny  establishment  of  their  own,  alone  over  their 
coffee-cups,  alone  under  their  lamp!  Susan's  heart 
went  out  to  the  little  house,  waiting  for  them  some- 
where. She  hung  a  dream  apron  on  the  door  of  a 
dream  kitchen,  and  went  to  meet  a  tired  dream-Billy 
at  the  door 

He  would  kiss  her.  The  blood  rushed  to  her  face 
and  she  shut  her  happy  eyes. 

A  dozen  times  a  day  she  involved  herself  in  some 
enterprise  from  which  she  could  not  extricate  herself 
without  his  help.  Billy  had  to  take  heavy  logs  out 
of  her  arms,  had  to  lay  a  plank  across  the  stretch  of 
creek  she  could  not  cross,  had  to  help  her  down  from 
the  crotch  of  a  tree  with  widespread  brotherly  arms. 

"I  thought — I — could — make — it!"  gasped  Susan, 
laughing,  when  he  swam  after  her,  across  the  pool, 
and  towed  her  ignominiously  home. 

"Susan,  you're  a  fool!"  scolded  Billy,  when  they 
were  safe  on  the  bank,  and  Susan,  spreading  her  wet 
hair  about  her,  siren-wise,  answered  meekly:  "Oh,  I 
know  it!" 

On  a  certain  Saturday  Anna  and  Philip  climbed 
down  from  the  stage,  and  the  joys  of  the  campers 
were  doubled  as  they  related  their  adventures  and 
shared  all  their  duties  and  delights.  Susan  and  Anna 
talked  nearly  all  night,  lying  in  their  canvas  beds,  on 
a  porch  flooded  with  moonlight,  and  if  Susan  did  not 
mention  Billy,  nor  Anna  allude  to  the  great  Doctor 
Hoffman,  they  understood  each  other  for  all  that. 

The  next  day  they  all  walked  up  beyond  the  ranch- 
house,  and  followed  the  dripping  flume  to  the  dam. 
And  here,  beside  a  wide  sheet  of  blue  water,  they  built 
their  fire,  and  had  their  lunch,  and  afterward  spent 
a  long  hour  in  the  water.  Quail  called  through  the 
woods,  and  rabbits  flashed  out  of  sight  at  the  sound 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  479 

of  human  voices,  and  once,  in  a  silence,  a  doe,  with  a 
bright-eyed  fawn  clinking  after  her  on  the  stones,  came 
down  to  the  farther  shore  for  a  drink. 

"You  ought  to  live  this  sort  of  life  all  the  time, 
Sue !"  Billy  said  idly,  as  they  sat  sunning  themselves 
on  the  wide  stone  bulkhead  that  held  back  the  water. 

"I?  Why?"  asked  Susan,  marking  the  smooth  ce- 
ment with  a  wet  forefinger. 

"Because  you're  such  a  kid,  Sue — you  like  it  all  so 
much!" 

"Knowing  what  you  know  of  me,  Bill,  I  wonder  that 
you  can  think  of  me  as  young  at  all,"  the  girl  answered 
drily,  suddenly  somber  and  raising  shamed  eyes  to  his. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  he  stammered,  and  then, 
suddenly  enlightened,  he  added  scornfully,  "Oh,  Lord!" 

"That "  Susan  said  quietly,  still  marking  the 

hot  cement,  "will  keep  me  from  ever— ever  being 

happy,  Bill "  Her  voice  thickened,  and  she 

stopped  speaking. 

"I  don't  look  at  that  whole  episode  as  you  do,  Sue," 
Billy  said  gruffly  after  a  moment's  embarrassed  silence. 
"I  don't  believe  chance  controls  those  things.  I  often 
think  of  it  when  some  man  comes  to  me  with  a  hard- 
luck  story.  His  brother  cheated  him,  and  a  factory 
burned  down,  and  he  was  three  months  sick  in  a  hos- 
pital— yes,  that  may  all  be  true !  But  follow  him  back 
far  enough  and  you'll  find  he  was  a  mean  man  from 
the  very  start,  ruined  a  girl  in  his  home  town,  let  his 
wife  support  his  kids.  It's  years  ago  now  perhaps, 
but  his  fate  is  simply  working  out  its  natural  con- 
clusion. Somebody  says  that  character  is  fate,  Sue, — 
you've  always  been  sweet  and  decent  and  considerate 
of  other  people,  and  your  fate  saved  you  through  that. 
You  couldn't  have  done  anything  wrong — it's  not  in 
you!" 

He  looked  up  with  his  bright  smile  but  Susan  could 
hear  no  more.  She  had  scrambled  to  her  feet  while 
he  was  speaking,  now  she  stopped  only  long  enough 
to  touch  his  shoulder  with  a  quick,  beseeching  pressure. 


480  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

The  next  instant  she  was  walking  away,  and  he  knew 
that  her  face  was  wet  with  tears.  She  plunged  into 
the  pool,  and  swam  steadily  across  the  silky  expanse, 
and  when  he  presently  joined  her,  with  Anna  and  Betts, 
she  was  quite  herself  again. 

Quite  her  old  self,  and  the  life  and  heart  of  every- 
thing they  did.  Anna  laughed  until  the  tears  stood  in 
her  eyes,  the  others,  more  easily  moved,  went  from 
one  burst  of  mirth  to  another. 

They  were  coming  home  past  the  lumber  mill  when 
Billy  fell  in  step  just  beside  her,  and  the  others  drifted 
on  without  them.  There  was  nothing  in  that  to  startle 
Susan,  but  she  did  feel  curiously  startled,  and  a  little 
shy,  and  managed  to  keep  a  conversation  going  almost 
without  help. 

"Stop  here  and  watch  the  creek,"  said  Billy,  at  the 
mill  bridge.  Susan  stopped,  and  they  stood  looking 
down  at  the  foaming  water,  tumbling  through  barriers, 
and  widening,  in  a  ruffled  circle,  under  the  great  wheel. 

"Was  there  ever  such  a  heavenly  place,  Billy?" 

"Never,"  he  said,  after  a  second.  Susan  had  time 
to  think  his  voice  a  little  deep  and  odd  before  he  added, 
with  an  effort,  "We'll  come  back  here  often,  won't 
we?  After  we're  married?" 

"Oh,  are  we  going  to  be  married?"  Susan  said 
lightly. 

"Well,  aren't  we?"  He  quietly  put  his  arm  about 
her,  as  they  stood  at  the  rail,  so  that  in  turning  her 
innocent,  surprised  eyes,  she  found  his  face  very  near. 
Susan  held  herself  away  rigidly,  dropped  her  eyes. 
She  could  not  answer. 

"How  about  it,  Sue?"  he  asked,  very  low  and,  look- 
ing up,  she  found  that  he  was  half-smiling,  but  with 
anxious  eyes.  Suddenly  she  found  her  eyes  brimming, 
and  her  lip  shook.  Susan  felt  very  young,  a  little 
frightened. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Billy?"  she  faltered.  It  was  too 
late  to  ask  it,  but  her  heart  suddenly  ached  with  a 
longing  to  hear  him  say  it. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  481 

"Love  you!"  he  said  scarcely  above  his  breath. 
"Don't  you  know  how  I  love  you!  I  think  I've  loved 
you  ever  since  you  came  to  our  house,  and  I  gave  you 
my  cologne  bottle!" 

There  was  no  laughter  in  his  tone,  but  the  old  mem- 
ory brought  laughter  to  them  both.  Susan  clung  to 
him,  and  he  tightened  his  arms  about  her.  Then  they 
kissed  each  other. 

Half  an  hour  behind  the  others  they  came  slowly 
down  the  home  trail.  Susan  had  grown  shy  now  and, 
although  she  held  his  hand  childishly,  she  would  not 
allow  him  to  kiss  her  again.  The  rapid  march  of 
events  had  confused  her,  and  she  amused  him  by  a 
plea  for  time  "to  think." 

"Please,  please  don't  let  them  suspect  anything  to- 
night, Bill!"  she  begged.  "Not  for  months!  For  we 
shall  probably  have  to  wait  a  long,  long  time!" 

"I  have  a  nerve  to  ask  any  girl  to  do  it!"  Billy 
said  gloomily. 

"You're  not  asking  any  girl.  You're  asking  me,  you 
know!" 

"But,  darling,  you  honestly  aren't  afraid?  We'll 
have  to  count  every  cent  for  awhile,  you  know!" 

"It  isn't  as  if  I  had  been  a  rich  girl,"  Susan  re- 
minded him. 

"But  you've  been  a  lot  with  rich  people.  And  we'll 
have  to  live  in  some  place  in  the  Mission,  like  Georgie, 
Sue!" 

"In  the  Mission  perhaps,  but  not  like  Georgie! 
Wait  until  you  eat  my  dinners,  and  see  my  darling 
little  drawing-room!  And  we'll  go  to  dinner  at 
Coppa's  and  Sanguinetti's,  and  come  over  to  Sausalito 
for  picnics, — we'll  have  wonderful  times!  You'll 
see!" 

"I  adore  you,"  said  Billy,  irrevelantly. 

"Well,"  Susan  said,  "I  hope  you  do!  But  I'll  tell 
you  something  I've  been  thinking,  Billy,"  she  resumed 
dreamily,  after  a  silence. 

"And  pwhats  dthat,  me  dar-r-rlin' ?" 


482  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"Why,  I  was  thinking  that  I'd  rather—  '  Susan 
began  hesitatingly,  "rather  have  my,  work  cut  out  for 
me  in  this  life !  That  is,  I'd  rather  begin  at  the  bottom 
of  the  ladder,  and  work  up  to  the  top,  than  be  at  the 
top,  through  no  merit  of  my  own,  and  live  in  terror 
of  falling  to  the  bottom!  I  believe,  from  what  I've 
seen  of  other  people,  that  we'll  succeed,  and  I  think 
we'll  have  lots  of  fun  doing  it!" 

"But,  Sue,  you  may  get  awfully  tired  of  it!" 

"Everybody  gets  awfully  tired  of  everything!"  sang 
Susan,  and  caught  his  hand  for  a  last  breathless  run 
into  camp. 

At  supper  they  avoided  each  other's  eyes,  and  as- 
sumed an  air  of  innocence  and  gaiety.  But  in  spite 
of  this,  or  because  of  it,  the  meal  moved  in  an  un- 
natural atmosphere,  and  everyone  present  was  con- 
scious of  a  sense  of  suspense,  of  impending  news. 

"Betts  dear,  do  listen! — the  salt"  said  Mrs.  Car- 
roll. "You've  given  me  the  spoons  and  the  but- 
ter twice!  Tell  me  about  to-day,"  she  added,  in  a 
desperate  effort  to  start  conversation.  "What  hap- 
pened?" 

But  Jimmy  choked  at  this,  Betsey  succumbed  to  help- 
less giggling,  and  even  Philip  reddened  with  suppressed 
laughter. 

"Don't,  Betts!"  Anna  reproached  her. 

"You're  just  as  bad  yourself!"  sputtered  Betsey,  in- 
dignantly. 

"I?"  Anna  turned  virtuous,  outraged  eyes  upon 
her  junior,  met  Susan's  look  for  a  quivering  second, 
and  buried  her  flushed  and  laughing  face  in  her  napkin. 

"I  think  you're  all  crazy!"  Susan  said  calmly. 

"She's  blushing!"  announced  Jimmy. 

"Cut  it  out  now,  kid,"  Billy  growled.  "It's  none 
of  your  business!" 

"What's  none  of  his  business?"  carroled  Betsey,  and 
a  moment  later  joyous  laughter  and  noise  broke  out, — 
Philip  was  shaking  William's  hand,  the  girls  were  kiss- 
ing Susan,  Mrs.  Carroll  was  laughing  through  tears. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  483 

Nobody  had  been  told  the  great  news,  but  everybody 
knew  it. 

Presently  Susan  sat  in  Mrs.  Carroll's  lap,  and  they 
all  talked  of  the  engagement;  who  had  suspected  it, 
who  had  been  surprised,  what  Anna  had  noticed,  what 
had  aroused  Jimmy's  suspicions.  Billy  was  very  talka- 
tive but  Susan  strangely  quiet  to-night. 

It  seemed  to  make  it  less  sacred,  somehow,  this 
open  laughter  and  chatter  about  it.  Why  she  had 
promised  Billy  but  a  few  hours  ago,  and  here  he  was 
threatening  never  to  ask  Betts  to  "our  house,"  unless 
she  behaved  herself,  and  kissing  Anna  with  the  hila- 
rious assurance  that  his  real  reason  for  "taking"  Susan 
was  because  she,  Anna,  wouldn't  have  him !  No  man 
who  really  loved  a  woman  could  speak  like  that  to 
another  on  the  very  night  of  his  engagement,  thought 
Susan.  A  great  coldness  seized  her  heart,  and  pity 
for  herself  possessed  her.  She  sat  next  to  Mrs.  Car- 
roll at  the  caiii£-fire,  and  refused  Billy  even  the  little 
liberty  of  keeping  his  fingers  over  hers.  No  liberties 
to-night ! 

And  later,  tucked  by  Mrs.  Carroll's  motherly  hands 
into  her  little  camp  bed  on  the  porch,  she  lay  awake, 
sick  at  heart.  Far  from  loving  Billy  Oliver,  she  almost 
disliked  him !  She  did  not  want  to  be  engaged  this  way, 
she  wanted,  at  this  time  of  all  times  in  her  life,  to  be 
treated  with  dignity,  to  be  idolized,  to  have  her  every 
breath  watched.  How  she  had  cheapened  everything 
by  letting  him  blurt  out  the  news  this  way!  And  now, 
how  could  she  in  dignity  draw  back 

Susan  began  to  cry  bitterly.  She  was  all  alone  in 
the  world,  she  said  to  herself,  she  had  never  had  a 
chance,  like  other  girls!  She  wanted  a  home  to-night, 
she  wanted  her  mother  and  father ! 

Her  handkerchief  was  drenched,  she  tried  to  dry  her 
eyes  on  the  harsh  hem  of  the  sheet.  Her  tears  rushed 
on  and  on,  there  seemed  to  be  no  stopping  them. 
Billy  did  not  care  for  her,  she  sobbed  to  herself,  he 
took  the  whole  thing  as  a  joke !  And,  beginning  thus, 


484  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

what  would  he  feel  after  a  few  years  of  poverty,  dark 
rooms  and  unpaid  bills? 

Even  if  he  did  love  her,  thought  Susan  bursting 
out  afresh,  how  was  she  to  buy  a  trousseau,  how  were 
they  to  furnish  rooms,  and  pay  rent,  "one  always  has 
to  pay  a  month's  rent  in  advance!"  she  thought 
gloomily. 

"I  believe  I  am  going  to  be  one  of  those  weepy, 
sensitive  women,  whose  noses  are  always  red,"  said 
Susan,  tossing  restlessly  in  the  dark.  "I  shall  go  mad 
if  I  can't  get  to  sleep!"  And  she  sat  up,  reached  for 
her  big,  loose  Japanese  wrapper  and  explored  with  bare 
feet  for  her  slippers. 

Ah — that  was  better!  She  sat  on  the  top  step,  her 
head  resting  against  the  rough  pillar  of  the  porch,  and 
felt  a  grateful  rush  of  cool  air  on  her  flushed  face. 
Her  headache  lessened  suddenly,  her  thoughts  ran  more 
quietly. 

There  was  no  moon  yet.  Susan  stared  at  the  dim 
profile  of  the  forest,  and  at  the  arch  of  the  sky,  spat- 
tered with  stars.  The  exquisite  beauty  of  the  summer 
night  soothed  and  quieted  her.  After  a  time  she  went 
noiselessly  down  the  dark  pathway  to  the  spring-house 
for  a  drink. 

The  water  was  deliciously  cool  and  fresh.  Susan, 
draining  a  second  cup  of  it,  jumped  as  a  voice  nearby 
said  quietly: 

"Don't  be  frightened — it's  me,  Billy!" 

"Heaven  alive — how  you  scared  me !"  gasped  Susan, 
catching  at  the  hand  he  held  out  to  lead  her  back  to 
the  comparative  brightness  of  the  path.  "Billy,  why 
aren't  you  asleep?" 

"Too  happy,  I  guess,"  he  said  simply,  his  eyes  on 
her. 

She  held  his  hands  at  arm's  length,  and  stared  at 
him  wistfully. 

"Are  you  so  happy,  Bill?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?"  The  words  were  hardly 
above  a  whisper,  he  wrenched  his  hands  suddenly  free 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  485 

from  her,  and  she  was  in  his  arms,  held  close  against 
his  heart.  "What  do  you  think,  my  own  girl?"  said 
Billy,  close  to  her  ear. 

"Heavens,  I  don't  want  him  to  care  this  much!" 
said  the  terrified  daughter  of  Eve,  to  herself.  Breath- 
less, she  freed  herself,  and  held  him  at  arm's  length 
again. 

"Billy,  I  can't  stay  down  here — even  for  a  second — 
unless  you  promise  not  to!" 

"But  darling — however,  I  won't!  And  will  you 
come  over  here  to  the  fence  for  just  a  minute — the 
moon's  coming  up !" 

Billy  Oliver — the  same  old  Billy! — trembling  with 
eagerness  to  have  Susan  Brown — the  unchanged  Susan! 
— come  and  stand  by  a  fence,  and  watch  the  moon  rise ! 
It  was  very  extraordinary,  it  was  pleasant,  and  curi- 
ously exciting,  too. 

"Well "  conceded  Susan,  as  she  gathered  her 

draperies  about  her,  and  went  to  stand  at  the  fence, 
and  gaze  childlishly  up  at  the  stars.  Billy,  also  rest- 
ing elbows  on  the  old  rail,  stood  beside  her,  and  never 
moved  his  eyes  from  her  face. 

The  half-hour  that  followed  both  of  them  would  re- 
member as  long  as  they  lived.  Slowly,  gloriously,  the 
moon  climbed  up  the  dark  blue  dome  of  the  sky,  and 
spread  her  silver  magic  on  the  landscape;  the  valley 
below  them  swam  in  pale  mist,  clean-cut  shadows  fell 
from  the  nearby  forest. 

The  murmur  of  young  voices  rose  and  fell — rose 
and  fell.  There  were  little  silences,  now  and  then 
Susan's  subdued  laughter.  Susan  thought  her  lover 
magnificent  in  the  moonlight;  what  Billy  thought  of 
the  lovely  downcast  face,  the  loose  braid  of  hair  that 
caught  a  dull  gleam  from  the  moon,  the  slender  elbows 
bare  on  the  rail,  the  breast  that  rose  and  fell,  under 
her  light  wraps,  with  Susan's  quickened  breathing,  per- 
haps he  tried  to  tell  her. 

"But  I  must  go  in !"  she  protested  presently.  "This 
has  been  wonderful,  but  I  must  go  in!" 


486  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"But  why?  We've  just  begun  talking — and  after 
all,  Sue,  you're  going  to  be  my  wife!" 

The  word  spurred  her.  In  a  panic  Susan  gave  him 
a  swift  half-kiss,  and  fled,  breathless  and  dishevelled, 
back  to  the  porch.  And  a  moment  later  she  had  fallen 
into  a  sleep  as  deep  as  a  child's,  her  prayer  of  grati- 
tude half-finished. 


. 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE  days  that  followed  were  brightened  or  dark- 
ened with  moods  so  intense,  that  it  was  a  real,  if  secret, 
relief  to  Susan  when  the  forest  visit  was  over,  and 
sun-burned  and  shabby  and  loaded  with  forest  spoils, 
they  all  came  home  again.  Jim's  first  position  awaited 
him,  and  Anna  was  assistant  matron  in  the  surgical 
hospital  now, — fated  to  see  the  man  she  loved  almost 
every  day,  and  tortured  afresh  daily  by  the  realization 
of  his  greatness,  his  wealth,  his  quiet,  courteous  disre- 
gard of  the  personality  of  the  dark-eyed,  deft  little 
nurse.  Dr.  Conrad  Hoffman  was  seventeen  years  older 
than  Anna.  Susan  secretly  thought  of  Anna's  attach- 
ment as  quite  hopeless. 

Philip  and  Betts  and  Susan  were  expected  back  at 
their  respective  places  too,  and  Billy  was  deeply  inter- 
ested in  the  outcome  of  the  casual,  friendly  letters  he 
had  written  during  the  month  in  camp  to  Joseph  Ras- 
sette.  These  letters  had  been  passed  about  among  the 
men  until  they  were  quite  worn  out;  Clem  Cudahy  had 
finally  had  one  or  two  printed,  for  informal  distribu- 
tion, and  there  had  been  a  little  sensation  over  them. 
Now,  eastern  societies  had  written  asking  for  back 
numbers  of  the  "Oliver  Letter,"  and  a  labor  journal 
had  printed  one  almost  in  full.  Clement  Cudahy  was 
anxious  to  discuss  with  Billy  the  feasibility  of  print- 
ing such  a  letter  weekly  for  regular  circulation,  and 
Billy  thought  well  of  the  idea,  and  was  eager  to  begin 
the  enterprise. 

Susan  was  glad  to  get  back  to  the  little  "Democrat," 
and  worked  very  hard  during  the  fall  and  winter. 
She  was  not  wholly  happy,  or,  rather,  she  WAS  not 

487 


488  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

happy  all  the  time.  There  were  times,  especially  when 
Billy  was  not  about,  when  it  seemed  very  pleasant*  to 
be  introduced  as  an  engaged  girl,  and  to  get  the  re- 
spectful, curious  looks  of  other  girls.  She  liked  to  hear 
Mrs.  Carroll  and  Anna  praise  Billy,  and  she  liked 
Betts'  enthusiasm  about  him. 

But  little  things  about  him  worried  her  inordinately, 
sometimes  she  resented,  for  a  whole  silent  evening,  his 
absorption  in  other  people,  sometimes  grew  pettish  and 
unresponsive  and  offended  because  he  could  keep 
neither  eyes  nor  hands  from  her.  And  there  were  even- 
ings when  they  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  talk  about, 
and  Billy,  too  tired  to  do  anything  but  drowse  in  his 
big  chair,  was  confronted  with  an  alert  and  horrified 
Susan,  sick  with  apprehension  of  all  the  long  even- 
ings, throughout  all  the  years/  Susan  was  fretted  by 
the  financial  barrier  to  the  immediate  marriage,  too, 
it  was  humiliating,  at  twenty-six,  to  be  affected  by  a 
mere  matter  of  dollars  and  cents. 

They  quarreled,  and  came  home  silently  from  a  din- 
ner in  town,  Susan's  real  motive  in  yielding  to  a  recon- 
ciliation being  her  disinclination  to  confess  to  Mrs. 
Carroll, — and  those  motherly  eyes  read  her  like  a  book, 
— that  she  was  punishing  Billy  for  asking  her  not  to 
"show  off"  before  the  waiter! 

But  early  in  the  new  year,  they  were  drawn  together 
by  rapidly  maturing  plans.  The  "Oliver  Letter," 
called  the  "Saturday  Protest"  now,  was  fairly  launched. 
Billy  was  less  absorbed  in  the  actual  work,  and  began 
to  feel  sure  of  a  moderate  success.  He  had  rented 
for  his  office  half  of  the  lower  floor  of  an  old  house 
in  the  Mission.  Like  all  the  old  homes  that  still 
stand  to  mark  the  era  when  Valencia  Street  was  as 
desired  an  address  as  California  Street  is  to-day,  it 
stood  upon  bulkheaded  ground,  with  a  fat-pillared 
wooden  fence  bounding  the  wide  lawns. 

The  fence  was  full  of  gaps,  and  the  house,  with 
double  bay-windows,  and  with  a  porch  over  its  front 
door,  was  shabby  and  bare.  Its  big  front  door  usually 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  489 

stood  open;  opposite  Billy,  across  a  wide  hall,  was  a 
modest  little  millinery  establishment,  upstairs  a  nurses' 
home,  and  a  woman  photographer  occupied  the  top 
floor.  The  "Protest,"  a  slim  little  sheet,  innocent 
of  contributed  matter  or  advertising,  and  written, 
proofed  and  set  up  by  Billy's  own  hands,  was  housed 
in  what  had  been  the  big  front  drawing-room.  Billy 
kept  house  in  the  two  back  rooms  that  completed  the 
little  suite. 

Susan  first  saw  the  house  on  a  Saturday  in  January, 
a  day  that  they  both  remembered  afterwards  as  being 
the  first  on  which  their  marriage  began  to  seem  a 
definite  thing.  It  was  in  answer  to  Billy's  rather  vague 
suggestion  that  they  must  begin  to  look  at  flats  in  the 
neighborhood  that  Susan  said,  half  in  earnest: 

"We  couldn't  begin  here,  I  suppose?  Have  the 
office  downstairs  in  the  big  front  room,  and  clean  up 
that  old  downstairs  kitchen,  and  fix  up  these  three 
rooms!" 

Billy  dismissed  the  idea.  But  it  rose  again,  when 
they  walked  downtown,  in  the  afternoon  sunlight,  and 
kept  them  in  animated  talk  over  a  happy  dinner. 

"The  rent  for  the  whole  thing  is  only  twenty  dol- 
lars!" said  Susan,  "and  we  can  fix  it  all  up,  pretty  old- 
fashioned  papers,  and  white  paint!  You  won't  know 
it!" 

"I  adore  you,  Sue — isn't  this  fun?"  was  William's 
somewhat  :ndirect  answer.  They  missed  one  boat, 
missed  another,  finally  decided  to  leave  it  to  Mrs. 
Carroll. 

Mrs.  Carroll's  decision  was  favorable.  "Loads  of 
sunlight  and  fresh  air,  Sue,  and  well  up  off  the  ground !" 
she  summarized  it. 

The  decision  made  all  sorts  of  madness  reasonable. 
If  they  were  to  live  there,  would  this  thing  fit — would 
that  thing  fit — why  not  see  paperers  at  once,  why  not 
look  at  stoves?  Susan  and  Billy  must  "get  an  idea" 
of  chairs  and  tables,  must  "get  an  idea"  of  curtains 
and  rugs. 


490  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"And  when  do  you  think,  children?"  asked  Mrs. 
Carroll. 

"June,"  said  Susan,  all  roses. 

"April,"  said  the  masterful  male. 

"Oh,  doesn't  it  begin  to  seem  exciting!"  burst  from 
Betsey.  The  engagement  was  an  old  story  now,  but 
this  revived  interest  in  it. 

"Clothes!"  said  Anna  rapturously.  "Sue,  you  must 
be  married  in  another  pongee,  you  never  had  anything 
so  becoming!" 

"We  must  decide  about  the  wedding  too,"  Mrs. 
Carroll  said.  "Certain  old  friends  of  your  mother, 
Sue " 

"Barrows  can  get  me  announcements  at  cost,"  Philip 
contributed. 

After  that  Susan  and  Billy  had  enough  to  talk  about. 
Love-making  must  be  managed  at  odd  moments;  Billy 
snatched  a  kiss  when  the  man  who  was  selling  them 
linoleums  turned  his  back  for  a  moment;  Susan  offered 
him  another  as  she  demurely  flourished  the  coffee-pot, 
in  the  deep  recesses  of  a  hardware  shop. 

"Do  let  me  have  my  girl  for  two  seconds  together!" 
Billy  pleaded,  when  between  Anna,  with  samples  of 
gowns,  Betts,  wild  with  excitement  over  an  arriving 
present,  and  Mrs.  Carroll's  anxiety  that  they  should 
not  miss  a  certain  auction  sale,  he  had  only  distracted 
glimpses  of  his  sweetheart. 

It  is  an  undeniable  and  blessed  thing  that,  to  the 
girl  who  is  buying  it,  the  most  modest  trousseau  in 
the  world  seems  wonderful  and  beautiful  and  complete 
beyond  dreams.  Susan's  was  far  from  being  the  most 
modest  in  the  world,  and  almost  every  day  brought 
her  beautiful  additions  to  it.  Georgie,  kept  at  home 
by  a  delicate  baby,  sent  one  delightful  box  after  an- 
other; Mary  Lou  sent  a  long  strip  of  beautiful  lace, 
wrapped  about  Ferd's  check  for  a  hundred  dollars. 

"It  was  Aunt  Sue  Rose's  lace,"  wrote  Mary  Lou, 
"and  I  am  going  to  send  you  a  piece  of  darling  Ma's, 
too,  and  one  or  two  of  her  spoons." 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  491 

This  reminded  Georgie  of  "Aunt  Sue  Rose's  box," 
which,  unearthed,  brought  forth  more  treasures;  a 
thin  old  silver  ladle,  pointed  tea-spoons  connected  with 
Susan's  infant  memories  of  castor-oil.  Virginia  had  a 
blind  friend  from  whom  she  ordered  a  wonderful 
knitted  field-coat,  Anna  telephoned  about  a  patient 
who  must  go  into  mourning,  and  wanted  to  sell  at  less 
than  half  its  cost,  the  loveliest  of  rose-wreathed 
hats. 

Susan  and  Anna  shopped  together,  Anna  consulting 
a  shabby  list,  Susan  rushing  off  at  a  hundred  tangents. 
Boxes  and  boxes  and  boxes  came  home,  the  engage- 
ment cups  had  not  stopped  coming  when  the  wedding 
presents  began.  The  spareroom  closet  was  hung  with 
fragrant  new  clothes,  its  bed  was  heaped  with  tissue- 
wrapped  pieces  of  silver. 

Susan  crossed  the  bay  two  or  three  times  a  week 
to  rush  through  some  bit  of  buying,  and  to  have  dinner 
with  Billy.  They  liked  all  the  little  Spanish  and  French 
restaurants,  loitered  over  their  sweet  black  coffee,  and 
dry  cheese,  explored  the  fascinating  dark  streets  of 
the  Chinese  Quarter,  or  went  to  see  the  "Marionettes" 
next  door  to  the  old  Broadway  jail.  All  of  it  appealed 
to  Susan's  hunger  for  adventure,  she  wove  romances 
about  the  French  families  among  whom  they  dined, — 
stout  fathers,  thin,  nervous  mothers,  stolid,  claret- 
drinking  little  girls,  with  manes  of  black  hair, — about 
the  Chinese  girls,  with  their  painted  lips,  and  the  old 
Italian  fishers,  with  scales  glittering  on  their  rough 
coats. 

"We've  got  to  run  for  it,  if  we  want  it!"  Billy  would 
say,  snatching  her  coat  from  a  chair.  Susan  after 
jabbing  in  her  hatpins  before  a  mirror  decorated  with 
arabesques  of  soap,  would  rush  with  him  into  the  street. 
Fog  and  pools  of  rain  water  all  about,  closed  ware- 
houses and  lighted  saloons,  dark  crossings — they  raced 
madly  across  the  ferry  place  at  last,  with  the  clock  in 
the  tower  looking  down  on  them. 

"We're  all  right  now!"  Billy  would  gasp.     But  they 


492  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

still  ran,  across  the  long  line  of  piers,  and  through  the 
empty  waiting-room,  and  the  iron  gates. 

"That  was  the  closest  yet!"  Susan,  reaching  the 
upper  deck,  could  stop  to  breathe.  There  were  seats 
facing  the  water,  under  the  engine-house,  where  Billy 
might  put  his  arm  about  her  unobserved.  Their  talk 
went  on. 

Usually  they  had  the  night  boat  to  themselves,  but 
now  and  then  Susan  saw  somebody  that  she  knew  on 
board.  One  night  she  went  in  to  talk  for  a  moment 
with  Ella  Saunders.  Ella  was  gracious,  casual.  Ken 
was  married,  as  Susan  knew, — the  newspapers  had  left 
nothing  to  be  imagined  of  the  most  brilliant  of  the 
season's  matches,  and  pictures  of  the  fortunate  bride, 
caught  by  the  cameras  as  she  made  her  laughing  way 
to  her  carriage,  a  white  blur  of  veil  and  flowers,  had 
appeared  everywhere.  Emily  was  not  well,  said  Ella, 
might  spend  the  summer  in  the  east;  Mama  was  not 
very  well.  She  asked  Susan  no  questions,  and  Susan 
volunteered  nothing. 

And  on  another  occasion  they  were  swept  into  the 
company  of  the  Furlongs.  Isabel  was  obviously 
charmed  with  Billy,  and  Billy,  Susan  thought,  made 
John  Furlong  seem  rather  stupid  and  youthful. 

"And  you  must  come  and  dine  with  us !"  said  Isabel. 
Obviously  not  in  the  month  before  the  wedding,  Isa- 
bel's happy  excuses,  in  an  aside  to  Susan,  were  not 
necessary,  " But  when  you  come  back,"  said  Isabel. 

"And  you  with  us  in  our  funny  little  rooms  in  the 
Mission,"  Susan  said  gaily.  Isabel  took  her  husband's 
arm,  and  gave  it  a  little  squeeze. 

"He'd  love  to !"  she  assured  Susan.  "He  just  loves 
things  like  that.  And  you  must  let  us  help  get  the 
dinner!" 

On  Sundays  the  old  walks  to  the  beach  had  been 
resumed,  and  the  hills  never  had  seemed  to  Susan 
as  beautiful  as  they  did  this  year,  when  the  first  spring 
sweetness  began  to  pierce  the  air,  and  the  breeze 
brought  faint  odors  of  grass,  and  good  wet  earth,  and 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  493 

violets.  Spring  this  year  meant  to  the  girl's  glowing 
and  ardent  nature  what  it  meant  to  the  birds,  with 
apple-blossoms  and  mustard-tops,  lilacs  and  blue  skies, 
would  come  the  mating  time.  Susan  was  the  daughter 
of  her  time;  she  did  not  know  why  all  the  world  seemed 
made  for  her  now;  her  heritage  of  ignorance  and  fear 
was  too  great.  But  Nature,  stronger  than  any  folly 
of  her  children,  made  her  great  claim  none  the  less. 
Susan  thrilled  in  the  sunshine  and  warm  air,  dreamed 
of  her  lover's  kisses,  gloried  in  the  fact  that  youth  was 
not  to  pass  her  by  without  youth's  hour. 

By  March  all  Sausalito  was  mantled  with  acacia 
bloom,  and  the  silent  warm  days  were  sweet  with  vio- 
lets. The  sunshine  was  soft  and  warm,  if  there  was 
still  chill  in  the  shade.  The  endless  weeks  had  dragged 
themselves  away;  Susan  and  Billy  were  going  to  be 
married. 

Susan  walked  in  a  radiant  dream,  curiously  wrapped 
away  from  reality,  yet  conscious,  in  a  new  and  deep 
and  poignant  way,  of  every  word,  of  every  waking 
instant. 

"I  am  going  to  be  married  next  week,"  she  heard 
herself  saying.  Other  women  glanced  at  her;  she  knew 
they  thought  her  strangely  unmoved.  She  thought  her- 
self so.  But  she  knew  that  running  under  the  serene 
surface  of  her  life  was  a  dazzling  great  river  of  joy! 
Susan  could  not  look  upon  it  yet.  Her  eyes  were 
blinded. 

Presents  came  in,  more  presents.  A  powder  box 
from  Ella,  candle-sticks  from  Emily,  a  curiously  em- 
broidered tablecloth  from  the  Kenneth  Saunders  in 
Switzerland.  And  from  old  Mrs.  Saunders  a  rather 
touching  note,  a  request  that  Susan  buy  herself  "some- 
thing pretty,"  with  a  check  for  fifty  dollars,  "from  her 
sick  old  friend,  Fanny  Saunders." 

Mary  Lou,  very  handsomely  dressed  and  prosper- 
ous, and  her  beaming  husband,  came  down  for  the 
wedding.  Mary  Lou  had  a  hundred  little  babyish, 
new  mannerisms,  she  radiated  the  complacency  of  the 


494  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

adored  woman,  and,  when  Susan  spoke  of  Billy,  Mary 
Lou  was  instantly  reminded  of  Ferd,  the  salary  Ferd 
made  at  twenty,  the  swiftness  of  his  rise  in  the  busi- 
ness world,  his  present  importance.  Mary  Lou  could 
not  hide  the  pity  she  felt  for  Susan's  very  modest  be- 
ginning. "I  wish  Ferd  could  find  Billy  some  nice,  easy 
position,"  said  Mary  Lou.  "I  don't  like  you  to  live 
out  in  that  place.  I  don't  believe  Ma  would!" 

Virginia  was  less  happy  than  her  sister.  The  East- 
mans were  too  busy  together  to  remember  her  lone- 
liness. "Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  Mary  Lou  just  likes 
to  have  me  there  to  remind  her  how  much  better  off 
she  is,"  said  Virginia  mildly,  to  Susan.  "Ferd  buys 
her  things,  and  takes  her  places,  and  all  I  can  do  is 
admire  and  agree!  Of  course  they're  angels,"  added 
Virginia,  wiping  her  eyes,  "but  I  tell  you  it's  hard  to  be 
dependent,  Sue!" 

Susan  sympathized,  laughed,  chattered,  stood  still 
under  dressmakers'  hands,  dashed  off  notes,  rushed 
into  town  for  final  purchases,  opened  gifts,  consulted 
with  everyone, — all  in  a  golden,  whirling  dream. 
Sometimes  a  cold  little  doubt  crossed  her  mind,  and 
she  wondered  whether  she  was  taking  all  this  too  much 
for  granted,  whether  she  really  loved  Billy,  whether 
they  should  not  be  having  serious  talks  now,  whether 
changes,  however  hard,  were  not  wiser  "before  than 
after"? 

But  it  was  too  late  for  that  now.  The  big  wheels 
were  set  in  motion,  the  day  was  coming  nearer  and 
more  near.  Susan's  whole  being  was  tuned  to  the  great 
event;  she  felt  herself  the  pivot  upon  which  all  her 
world  turned.  A  hundred  things  a  day  brought  the 
happy  color  to  her  face,  stopped  her  heart-beats  for 
a  second.  She  had  a  little  nervous  qualm  over  the 
announcements;  she  dreamed  for  a  moment  over  the 
cards  that  bore  the  new  name  of  Mrs.  William  Jerome 
Oliver.  "It  seems  so — so  funny  to  have  these  things 
here  in  my  trunk,  before  I'm  married!"  said  Susan. 

Anna  came  home,  gravely  radiant;  Betsy  exulted  in 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  495 

a  new  gown  of  flimsy  embroidered  linen;  Philip,  in  the 
character  of  best  man,  referred  to  a  list  of  last-moment 
reminders. 

Three  days  more — two  days  more— then  Susan  was 
to  be  married  to-morrow.  She  and  Billy  had  enough 
that  was  practical  to  discuss  the  last  night,  before  he 
must  run  for  his  boat.  She  went  with  him  to  the  door. 

"I'm  going  to  be  crazy  about  my  wife!"  whispered 
Billy,  with  his  arms  about  her.  Susan  was  not  in  a  re- 
sponsive mood. 

"I'm   dead!"   she   said  wearily,   resting  her  head 
against  his  shoulder  like  a  tired  child. 

She  went  upstairs  slowly  to  her  room.  It  was  strewn 
with  garments  and  hats  and  cardboard  boxes;  Susan's 
suitcase,  with  the  things  in  it  that  she  would  need  for 
a  fortnight  in  the  woods,  was  open  on  the  table.  The 
gas  flared  high,  Betsey  at  the  mirror  was  trying  a  new 
method  of  arranging  her  hair.  Mrs.  Carroll  was 
packing  Susan's  trunk,  Anna  sat  on  the  bed. 

"Sue,  dear,"  said  the  mother,  "are  you  going  to  be 
warm  enough  up  in  the  forest?  It  may  be  pretty  cold." 

"Oh,  we'll  have  fires!"  Susan  said. 

"Well,  you  are  the  coolest!"  ejaculated  Betsey.  "I 
should  think  you'd  feel  so  funny,  going  up  there  alone 
with  Billy " 

"I'd  feel  funnier  going  up  without  him,"  Susan  said 
equably.  She  got  into  a  loose  wrapper,  braided  her 
hair.  Mrs.  Carroll  and  Betsey  kissed  her  and  went 
away;  Susan  and  Anna  talked  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
Susan  went  to  sleep.  But  Anna  lay  awake  for  a  long 
time  thinking, — thinking  what  it  would  be  like  to  know 
that  only  a  few  hours  lay  between  the  end  of  the  old 
life  and  the  beginning  of  the  new. 

"My  wedding  day."  Susan  said  it  slowly  when  she 
awakened  in  the  morning.  She  felt  that  the  words 
should  convey  a  thrill,  but  somehow  the  day  seemed 
much  like  any  other  day.  Anna  was  gone,  there  was  a 
subdued  sound  of  voices  downstairs. 

A  day  that  ushered  in  the  full  glory  of  the  spring. 


496  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

All  the  flowers  were  blooming  at  once,  at  noon  the  air 
was  hot  and  still,  not  a  leaf  stirred.  Before  Susan  had 
finished  her  late  breakfast  Billy  arrived;  there  was  talk 
of  tickets  and  train  time  before  she  went  upstairs. 
Mary  Lou  had  come  early  to  watch  the  bride  dress; 
good,  homely,  happy  Miss  Lydia  Lord  must  run  up 
to  Susan's  room  too, — the  room  was  full  of  women. 
Isabel  Furlong  was  throned  in  the  big  chair,  John  was 
to  take  her  away  before  the  wedding,  but  she  wanted 
to  kiss  Susan  in  her  wedding  gown. 

Susan  presently  saw  a  lovely  bride,  smiling  in  the 
depths  of  the  mirror,  and  was  glad  for  Billy's  sake  that 
she  looked  "nice."  Tall  and  straight,  with  sky-blue 
eyes  shining  under  a  crown  of  bright  hair,  with  the  new 
corsets  setting  off  the  lovely  gown  to  perfection,  her 
mother's  lace  at  her  throat  and  wrists,  and  the  rose- 
wreathed  hat  matching  her  cheeks,  she  looked  the  young 
and  happy  woman  she  was,  stepping  bravely  into  the 
world  of  loving  and  suffering. 

The  pretty  gown  must  be  gathered  up  safely  for  the 
little  walk  to  church.  "Are  we  all  ready?"  asked 
Susan,  running  concerned  eyes  over  the  group. 

"Don't  worry  about  us!"  said  Philip.  "You're  the 
whole  show  to-day!" 

In  a  dream  they  were  walking  through  the  fragrant 
roads,  in  a  dream  they  entered  the  unpretentious  little 
church,  and  were  questioned  by  the  small  Spanish  sex- 
ton at  the  door.  No,  that  was  Miss  Garroll, — this 
was  Miss  Brown.  Yes,  everyone  was  here.  The  groom 
and  his  best  man  had  gone  in  the  other  door.  Who 
would  give  away  the  bride?  This  gentleman,  Mr. 
Eastman,  who  was  just  now  standing  very  erect  and 
offering  her  his  arm.  Susan  Ralston  Brown — William 
Jerome  Oliver — quite  right.  But  they  must  wait  a 
moment;  the  sexton  must  go  around  by  the  vestry  for 
some  last  errand. 

The  little  organ  wheezed  forth  a  march;  Susan 
walked  slowly  at  Ferd  Eastman's  side, — stopped, — 
and  heard  a  rich  Italian  voice  asking  questions  in  a 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  497 

free  and  kindly  whisper.  The  gentleman  this  side — 
and  the  lady  here — so ! 

The  voice  suddenly  boomed  out  loud  and  clear  and 
rapid.  Susan  knew  that  this  was  Billy  beside  her,  but 
she  could  not  raise  her  eyes.  She  studied  the  pattern 
that  fell  on  the  red  altar-carpet  through  a  sun-flooded 
window.  She  told  herself  that  she  must  think  now 
seriously;  she  was  getting  married.  This  was  one  of 
the  great  moments  of  her  life. 

She  raised  her  head,  looked  seriously  into  the  kind 
old  face  so  near  her,  glanced  at  Billy,  who  was  very 
pale. 

"I  will,"  said  Susan,  clearing  her  throat.  She  re- 
flected in  a  panic  that  she  had  not  been  ready  for  the 
question,  and  wondered  vaguely  if  that  invalidated  her 
marriage,  in  the  eyes  of  Heaven  at  least.  Getting  mar- 
ried seemed  a  very  casual  and  brief  matter.  Susan 
wished  that  there  was  more  form  to  it;  pages,  and 
heralds  with  horns,  and  processions.  What  an  awful 
carpet  this  red  one  must  be  to  sweep,  showing  every 
speck!  She  and  Billy  had  painted  their  floors,  and 
would  use  rugs 

This  was  getting  married.  "I  wish  my  mother  was 
here!"  said  Susan  to  herself,  perfunctorily.  The 
words  had  no  meaning  for  her. 

They  knelt  down  to  pray.  And  suddenly  Susan, 
whose  ungloved  hand,  with  its  lilies-of-the-valley,  had 
dropped  by  her  side,  was  thrilled  to  the  very  depth  of 
her  being  by  the  touch  of  Billy's  cold  fingers  on  hers. 

Her  heart  flooded  with  a  sudden  rushing  sense  of 
his  goodness,  his  simplicity.  He  was  marrying  his 
girl,  and  praying  for  them  both,  his  whole  soul  was 
filled  with  the  solemn  responsibility  he  incurred  now. 

She  clung  to  his  hand,  and  shut  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  God,  take  care  of  us,"  she  prayed,  "and  make 
us  love  each  other,  and  make  us  good!  Make  us 
good " 

She  was  deep  in  her  prayer,  eyes  tightly  closed,  lips 
moving  fast,  when  suddenly  everything  was  over. 


498  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Billy  and  she  were  walking  down  the  aisle  again, 
Susan's  ringed  hand  on  the  arm  that  was  hers  now,  to 
the  end  of  the  world. 

"Billy,  you  didn't  kiss  her!"  Betts  reproached  him 
in  the  vestibule. 

"Didn't  I?  Well,  I  will!"  He  had  a  fragrant, 
bewildered  kiss  from  his  wife  before  Anna  and  Mrs. 
Carroll  and  all  the  others  claimed  her. 

Then  they  walked  home,  and  Susan  protested  that 
it  did  not  seem  right  to  sit  at  the  head  of  the  flower 
trimmed  table,  and  let  everyone  wait  on  her.  She  ran 
upstairs  with  Anna  to  get  into  her  corduroy  camping- 
suit,  and  dashing  little  rough  hat,  ran  down  for  kisses 
and  good-byes.  Betsey — Mary  Lou — Philip — Mary 
Lou  again. 

"Good-bye,  adorable  darling!"  said  Betts,  laughing 
through  tears. 

"Good-bye,  dearest,"  whispered  Anna,  holding  her 
close. 

"Good-bye,  my  own  girl!"  The  last  kiss  was  for 
Mrs.  Carroll,  and  Susan  knew  of  whom  the  mother 
was  thinking  as  the  first  bride  ran  down  the  path. 

"Well,  aren't  they  all  darlings?"  said  young  Mrs. 
Oliver,  in  the  train. 

"Corkers!"  agreed  the  groom.  "Don't  you  want 
to  take  your  hat  off,  Sue?" 

"Well,  I  think  I  will,"  Susan  said  pleasantly.  Con- 
versation languished. 

"Tired,  dear?" 

"Oh,  no!"  Susan  said  brightly. 

"I  wonder  if  you  can  smoke  in  here,"  Billy  observedv 
after  a  pause. 

"I  don't  believe  you  can!"  Susan  said,  interestedly. 

"Well,  when  he  comes  through  I'll  ask  him 

Susan  felt  as  if  she  should  never  speak  spontane- 
ously again.  She  was  very  tired,  very  nervous,  able, 
with  cold  dispassion,  to  wonder  what  she  and  Billy 
Oliver  were  doing  in  this  close,  dirty  train, — to  wonder 
why  people  ever  spoke  of  a  wedding-day  as  especially 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  499 

pleasant, — what  people  found  in  life  worth  while,  any- 
way! 

She  thought  that  it  would  be  extremely  silly  in  them 
to  attempt  to  reach  the  cabin  to-night;  far  more  sen- 
sible to  stay  at  Farwoods,  where  there  was  a  little  hotel, 
or,  better  yet,  go  back  to  the  city.  But  Billy,  although 
a  little  regretful  for  the  darkness  in  which  they  ended 
their  journey,  suggested  no  change  of  plan,  and  Susan 
found  herself  unable  to  open  the  subject.  She  made 
the  stage  trip  wedged  in  between  Billy  and  the  driver, 
climbed  down  silently  at  the  foot  of  the  familiar  trail, 
and  carried  the  third  suitcase  up  to  the  cabin. 

"You  can't  hurt  that  dress,  can  you,  Sue?"  said 
Billy,  busy  with  the  key. 

"No !"  Susan  said,  eager  for  the  commonplace.  "It's 
made  for  just  this!" 

"Then  hustle  and  unpack  the  eats,  will  you?  And 
I'll  start  a  fire!" 

"Two  seconds!"  Susan  took  off  her  hat,  and  en- 
veloped herself  in  a  checked  apron.  There  was  a 
heavy  chill  in  the  room;  there  was  that  blank  for- 
bidding air  in  the  dusty,  orderly  room  that  follows 
months  of  unuse.  Susan  unpacked,  went  to  and  fro 
briskly;  the  claims  of  housekeeping  reassured  and 
soothed  her. 

Billy  made  thundering  journeys  for  wood.  Pres- 
ently there  was  a  flare  of  lighted  papers  in  the  fire- 
place, and  the  heartening  snap  and  crackle  of  wood. 
The  room  was  lighted  brilliantly;  delicious  odors  of 
sap  mingled  with  the  fragrance  from  Susan's  coffee  pot. 

"Oh,  keen  idea !"  said  Billy,  when  she  brought  the 
little  table  close  to  the  hearth.  "Gee,  that's  pretty!" 
he  added,  as  she  shook  over  it  the  little  fringed  table- 
cloth, and  laid  the  blue  plates  neatly  at  each  side. 

"Isn't  this  fun?"  It  burst  spontaneously  from  the 
bride. 

"Fun  I"  Billy  flung  down  an  armful  of  logs,  and 
came  to  stand  beside  Her,  watching  the  flames.  "Lord, 
Susan,"  he  said,  with  simple  force,  "if  you  only  knew 


500  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

how  perfect  you  seem  to  me !  If*  you  only  knew  how- 
many  years  I've  been  thinking  how  beautiful  you  were, 
and  how  clever,  and  how  far  above  me 1" 

"Go  right  on  thinking  so,  darling!"  said  Susan,  prac- 
tically, escaping  from  his  arm,  and  taking  her  place 
behind  the  cold  chicken.  "Do  ye  feel  like  ye  could  eat 
a  little  mite,  Pa?"  asked  she. 

"Well,  I  dunno,  mebbe  I  could!"  William  answered 
hilariously.  "Say,  Sue,  oughtn't  those  blankets  be  out 
here,  airing?"  he  added  suddenly. 

"Oh,  do  let's  have  dinner  first.  They  make  every- 
thing look  so  horrid,"  said  young  Mrs.  Oliver,  com- 
posedly carving.  "They  can  dry  while  we're  doing 
the  dishes." 

"You  know,  until  we  can  afford  a  maid,  I'm  going 
to  help  you  every  night  with  the  dishes,"  said  Billy. 

"Well,  don't  put  on  airs  about  it,"  Susan  said  briskly. 
"Or  I'll  leave  you  to  do  them  entirely  alone,  while  I 
run  over  the  latest  songs  on  the  piarno.  Here  now, 
deary,  chew  this  nicely,  and  when  I've  had  all  I  want, 
perhaps  I'll  give  you  some  more !" 

"Sue,  aren't  we  going  to  have  fun — doing  things 
like  this  all  our  lives?" 

"/  think  we  are,"  said  Susan  demurely.  It  was 
strange,  it  had  its  terrifying  phases,  but  it  was  curi- 
ously exciting  and  wonderful,  too,  this  wearing  of  a 
man's  ring  and  his  name,  and  being  alone  with  him  up 
here  in  the  great  forest. 

"This  is  life — this  is  all  good  and  right,"  the  new- 
made  wife  said  to  herself,  with  a  flutter  at  her  heart. 
And  across  her  mind  there  flitted  a  fragment  of  the 
wedding-prayer,  "in  shamefacedness  grave."  "I  will 
be  grave,"  thought  Susan.  "I  will  be  a  good  wife,  with 
God's  help!" 

Again  morning  found  the  cabin  flooded  with  sun- 
light, and  for  all  their  happy  days  there  the  sun  shone, 
and  summer  silences  made  the  woods  seem  like  June. 

"Billum,  if  only  we  didn't  have  to  go  back!"  said 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  501 

William's  wife,  seated  on  a  stump,  and  watching  him 
clean  trout  for  their  supper,  in  the  soft  close  of  an 
afternoon. 

"Darling,  I  love  to  have  you  sitting  there,  with  your 
little  feet  tucked  under  you,  while  I  work,"  said  Wil- 
liam enthusiastically. 

"I  know,"  Susan  agreed  absently.  "But  don't  you 
wish  we  didn't?"  she  resumed,  after  a  moment. 

"Well,  in  a  way  I  do,"  Billy  answered,  stooping  to 
souse  a  fish  in  the  stream  beside  which  he  was  kneel- 
ing. "But  there's  the  'Protest'  you  know, — there's  a 
lot  to  do!  And  we'll  come  back  here,  every  year. 
We'll  work  like  mad  for  eleven  months,  and  then  come 
up  here  and  loaf." 

"But,  Bill,  how  do  we  know  we  can  manage  it  finan- 
cially?" said  Susan  prudently. 

"Oh,  Lord,  we'll  manage  it!"  he  answered  comfort- 
ably. "Unless,  of  course,  you  want  to  have  all  the 
kids  brought  up  in  white  stockings,"  grinned  Billy,  "and 
have  their  pictures  taken  every  month !" 

"Up  here,"  said  Susan  dreamily,  yet  very  earnestly 
too,  "I  feel  so  sure  of  myself!  I  love  the  simplicity, 
I  love  the  work,  I  could  entertain  the  King  of  England 
right  here  in  this  forest  and  not  be  ashamed!  But 
when  we  go  back,  Bill,  and  I  realize  that  Isabel  Wal- 
lace may  come  in  and  find  me  pressing  my  window  cur- 
tains, or  that  we  honestly  can't  afford  to  send  some- 
one a  handsome  wedding  present,  I'll  begin  to  be 
afraid.  I  know  that  now  and  then  I'll  find  myself  in- 
vesting in  finger-bowls  or  salted  almonds,  just  because 
other  people  do." 

"Well,  that's  not  actionable  for  divorce,  woman!" 

Susan  laughed,  but  did  not  answer.  She  sat  looking 
idly  down  the  long  aisles  of  the  forest,  palpitating  to- 
day with  a  rush  of  new  fragrance,  new  color,  new  song. 
Far  above,  beyond  the  lacing  branches  of  the  red- 
woods, a  buzzard  hung  motionless  in  a  blue,  blue  sky. 

"Bill,"  she  said  presently,  "I  could  live  at  a  settle- 
ment house,  and  be  happy  all  my  life  showing  other 


502  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

women  how  to  live.  But  when  it  comes  to  living  down 
among  them,  really  turning  my  carpets  and  scrubbing 
my  own  kitchen,  I'm  sometimes  afraid  that  I'm  not  big 
enough  woman  to  be  happy !" 

"Why,  but,  Sue  dear,  there's  a  decent  balance  at 
the  bank.  We'll  build  on  the  Panhandle  lots  some  day, 
and  something  comes  in  from  the  blue-prints,  right 
along.  If  you  get  your  own  dinner  five  nights  a  week, 
we'll  be  trotting  downtown  on  other  nights,  or  over 
at  the  Carrolls',  or  up  here."  Billy  stood  up.  "There's 
precious  little  real  poverty  in  the  world,"  he  said,  cheer- 
fully, "we'll  work  out  our  list  of  expenses,  and  we'll 
stick  to  it!  But  we're  going  to  prove  how  easy  it  is 
to  prosper,  not  how  easy  it  is  to  go  under.  We're  the 
salt  of  the  earth !" 

"You're  big;  I'm  not,"  said  Susan,  rubbing  her  head 
against  him  as  he  sat  beside  her  on  the  stump.  But 
his  nearness  brought  her  dimples  back,  and  the  sober 
mood  passed. 

"Bill,  if  I  die  and  you  remarry,  promise  me,  oh, 
promise !  that  you  won't  bring  her  here !" 

"No,  darling,  my  second  wife  is  going  to  choose  Del 
Monte  or  Coronado !"  William  assured  her. 

"I'll  bet  she  does,  the  cat!"  Susan  agreed  gaily. 
"You  know  when  Elsie  Rice  married  Jerry  Philips," 
she  went  on,  in  sudden  recollection,  "they  went  to  Del 
Monte.  They  were  both  bridge  fiends,  even  when 
they  were  engaged  everyone  who  gave  them  dinners 
had  to  have  cards  afterwards.  Well,  it  seems  they  went 
to  Del  Monte,  and  they  moped  about  for  a  day  or  two, 
and,  finally,  Jerry  found  out  that  the  Joe  Carrs  were 
at  Santa  Cruz, — the  Carrs  play  wonderful  bridge.  So 
he  and  Elsie  went  straight  up  there,  and  they  played 
every  afternoon  and  every  night  for  the  next  two 
weeks, — and  all  went  to  the  Yosemite  together,  even 
playing  on  the  train  all  the  way!" 

"What  a  damn  fool  class  for  any  nation  to  carry!" 
Billy  commented,  mildly. 

"Ah,  well,"  Susan  said,  joyfully,  "we'll  fix  them  all! 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  503 

And  when  there  are  model  poorhouses  and  prisons,  and 
single  tax,  and  labor  pensions,  and  eight-hour  days, 
and  free  wool — then  we'll  come  back  here  and  settle 
down  in  the  woods  for  ever  and  ever!" 


CHAPTER    VII 

IN  the  years  that  followed  they  did  come  back  to 
the  big  woods,  but  not  every  year,  for  in  the  beginning 
of  their  life  together  there  were  hard  times,  and 
troubled  times,  when  even  a  fortnight's  irresponsibility 
and  ease  was  not  possible.  Yet  they  came  often  enough 
to  keep  fresh  in  their  hearts  the  memory  of  great  spaces 
and  great  silences,  and  to  dream  their  old  dreams. 

The  great  earthquake  brought  them  home  hurriedly 
from  their  honeymoon,  and  Susan  had  her  work  to  do, 
amid  all  the  confusion  that  followed  the  uprooting  of 
ten  thousand  homes.  Young  Mrs.  Oliver  listened  to 
terrible  stories,  while  she  distributed  second-hand  cloth- 
ing, and  filed  cards,  walked  back  to  her  own  little 
kitchen  at  five  o'clock  to  cook  her  dinner,  and  wrapped 
and  addressed  copies  of  the  "Protest"  far  into  the 
night. 

With  the  deeper  social  problems  that  followed  the 
days  of  mere  physical  need, — what  was  in  her  of  love 
and  charity  rushed  into  sudden  blossoming, — she  found 
that  her  inexperienced  hands  must  deal.  She,  whose 
wifehood  was  all  joy  and  sanity,  all  sweet  and  myster- 
ious deepening  of  the  color  of  life,  encountered  now 
the  hideous  travesty  of  wifehood  and  motherhood,  met 
by  immature,  ill-nourished  bodies,  and  hearts  sullen  and 
afraid. 

"You  ought  not  be  seeing  these  things  now,"  Billy 
warned  her.  But  Susan  shook  her  head. 

"It's  good  for  me,  Billy.  And  it's  good  for  the  little 
person,  too.  It's  no  credit  to  him  that  he's  more  for- 
tunate than  these — he  needn't  feel  so  superior!"  smiled 
Susan. 

Every  cent  must  be  counted  in  these  days.  Susan 

504 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  505 

and  Billy  laughed  long  afterward  to  remember  that  on 
many  a  Sunday  they  walked  over  to  the  little  General 
Post  Office  in  Mission  Street,  hoping  for  a  subscription 
or  two  in  the  mail,  to  fan  the  dying  fires  of  the  "Pro- 
test" for  a  few  more  days.  Better  times  came ;  the  little 
sheet  struck  roots,  carried  a  modest  advertisement  or 
two,  and  a  woman's  column  under  the  heading  "Mary 
Jane's  Letter"  whose  claims  kept  the  editor's  wife  far 
too  busy. 

As  in  the  early  days  of  her  marriage  all  the  women 
of  the  world  had  been  simply  classified  as  wives  or  not 
wives,  so  now  Susan  saw  no  distinction  except  that  of 
motherhood  or  childlessness.  When  she  lay  sick,  fev- 
erish and  confused,  in  the  first  hours  that  followed 
the  arrival  of  her  first-born,  she  found  her  problem  no 
longer  that  of  the  individual,  no  longer  the  question 
merely  of  little  Martin's  crib  and  care  and  impending 
school  and  college  expenses.  It  was  the  great  burden 
of  the  mothers  of  the  world  that  Susan  took  upon  her 
shoulders.  Why  so  much  strangeness  and  pain,  why 
such  ignorance  of  rules  and  needs,  she  wondered.  She 
lay  thinking  of  tired  women,  nervous  women,  women 
hanging  over  midnight  demands  of  colic  and  croup, 
women  catching  the  little  forms  back  from  the  treach- 
erous open  window,  and  snatching  away  the  dangerous 
bottle  from  little  hands ! 

"Miss  Allen,"  said  Susan,  out  of  a  silence,  "he 
doesn't  seem  to  be  breathing.  The  blanket  hasn't  gotten 
over  his  little  face,  has  it?" 

So  began  the  joyous  martyrdom.  Susan's  heart 
would  never  beat  again  only  for  herself.  Hand  in 
hand  with  the  rapture  of  owning  the  baby  walked  the 
terror  of  losing  him.  His  meals  might  have  been  a 
special  miracle,  so  awed  and  radiant  was  Susan's  face 
when  she  had  him  in  her  arms.  His  goodness,  when 
he  was  good,  seemed  to  her  no  more  remarkable  than 
his  badness,  when  he  was  bad.  Susan  ran  to  him  after 
the  briefest  absences  with  icy  fear  at  her  heart.  He 
had  loosened  a  pin — gotten  it  into  his  mouth,  he  had 


506  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

wedged  his  darling  little  head  in  between  the  bars  of 
his  crib 1 

But  she  left  him  very  rarely.  What  Susan  did  now 
must  be  done  at  home.  Her  six-days-old  son  asleep  be- 
side her,  she  was  discovered  by  Anna  cheerfully  dictat- 
ing to  her  nurse  "Mary  Jane's  Letter"  for  an  approach- 
ing issue  of  the  "Protest."  The  young  mother 
laughed  joyfully  at  Anna's  concern,  but  later,  when 
the  trained  nurse  was  gone,  and  the  warm  heavy  days 
of  the  hot  summer  came,  when  fat  little  Martin  was 
restless  through  the  long,  summer  nights  with  teeth- 
ing, Susan's  courage  and  strength  were  put  to  a  hard 
test. 

"We  ought  to  get  a  girl  in  to  help  you,"  Billy  said, 
distressedly,  on  a  night  when  Susan,  flushed  and  excited, 
refused  his  help  everywhere,  and  attempted  to  man- 
age baby  and  dinner  and  house  unassisted. 

"We  ought  to  get  clothes  and  china  and  linen  and 
furniture, — we  ought  to  move  out  of  this  house  and 
this  block!"  Susan  wanted  to  say.  But  with  some  effort 
she  refrained  from  answering  at  all,  and  felt  tears 
sting  her  eyes  when  Billy  carried  the  baby  off,  to  do 
with  his  big  gentle  fingers  all  the  folding  and  pinning 
and  buttoning  that  preceded  Martin's  disappearance 
for  the  evening. 

"Never  mind!"  Susan  said  later,  smiling  bravely 
over  the  dinner  table,  "he  needs  less  care  every  day! 
He'll  soon  be  walking  and  amusing  himself." 

But  Martin  was  only  staggering  uncertainly  and  far 
from  self-sufficient  when  Billy  Junior  came  laughing 
into  the  family  group.  "How  do  women  do  it!" 
thought  Susan,  recovering  slowly  from  a  second  heavy 
drain  on  nerves  and  strength. 

No  other  child,  of  course,  would  ever  mean  to  her 
quite  what  the  oldest  son  meant.  The  first-born  is  the 
miracle,  brought  from  Heaven  itself  through  the  very 
gates  of  death,  a  pioneer,  merciless  and  helpless,  a 
little  monarch  whose  kingdom  never  existed  before 
the  day  he  set  up  his  feeble  little  cry.  All  the  delight- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  507 

ful  innovations  are  for  him, — the  chair,  the  mug,  the 
little  airings,  the  remodeled  domestic  routine. 

"Pain  in  his  poor  little  turn!"  Susan  said  cheerfully 
and  tenderly,  when  the  youthful  Billy  cried.  Under 
exactly  similar  circumstances,  with  Martin,  she  had 
shed  tears  of  terror  and  despair,  while  Billy,  shivering 
in  his  nightgown,  had  hung  at  the  telephone  awaiting 
her  word  to  call  the  doctor.  Martin's  tawny,  finely 
shaped  little  head,  the  grip  of  his  sturdy,  affectionate 
little  arms,  his  early  voyages  into  the  uncharted  sea  of 
English  speech, — these  were  so  many  marvels  to  his 
mother  and  father. 

But  it  had  to  be  speedily  admitted  that  Billy  had  his 
own  particular  charm  too.  The  two  were  in  everything 
a  sharp  contrast.  Martin's  bright  hair  blew  in  loose 
waves,  Billy's  dark  curls  fitted  his  head  like  a  cap. 
Martin's  eyes  were  blue  and  grave,  Billy's  dancing  and 
brown.  Martin  used  words  carefully,  with  a  nice 
sense  of  values,  Billy  achieved  his  purposes  with  stamp- 
ing and  dimpling,  and  early  coined  a  tiny  vocabulary 
of  his  own.  Martin  slept  flat  on  his  small  back,  a 
muscular  little  viking  drifting  into  unknown  waters, 
but  drowsiness  must  always  capture  Billy  alive  and 
fighting.  Susan  untangled  him  nightly  from  his  covers, 
loosened  his  small  fingers  from  the  bars  of  his  crib. 

She  took  her  maternal  responsibilities  gravely.  Billy 
Senior  thought  it  very  amusing  to  see  her,  buttering 
a  bowl  for  bread-pudding,  or  running  small  garments 
through  her  machine,  while  she  recited  "The  Pied 
Piper"  or  "Goblin  Market"  to  a  rapt  audience  of  two 
staring  babies.  But  somehow  the  sight  was  a  little 
touching,  too. 

"Bill,  don't  you  honestly  think  that  they're  smarter 
than  other  children,  or  is  it  just  because  they're  mine?" 
Susan  would  ask.  And  Billy  always  answered  in  sober 
good  faith,  "No,  it's  not  you,  dear,  for  I  see  it  tool 
And  they  really  are  unusual!" 

Susan  sometimes  put  both  boys  into  the  carriage  and 
went  to  see  Georgie,  to  whose  group  a  silent,  heavy 


508  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

little  boy  had  now  been  added.  Mrs.  O'Connor  was  n 
stout,  complacent  little  person;  the  doctor's  mother  was 
dead,  and  Georgie  spoke  of  her  with  sad  affection  and 
reverence.  The  old  servant  stayed  on,  tirelessly  de- 
voted to  the  new  mistress,  as  she  had  been  to  the  old, 
and  passionately  proud  of  the  children.  Joe's  prac- 
tice had  grown  enormously;  Joe  kept  a  runabout  now, 
and  on  Sundays  took  his  well-dressed  wife  out  with 
him  to  the  park.  They  had  a  circle  of  friends  very 
much  like  themselves,  prosperous  young  fathers  and 
mothers,  and  there  was  a  pleasant  rivalry  in  card-par- 
ties, and  the  dressing  of  little  boys  and  girls.  Myra 
and  Helen,  colored  ribbons  tying  their  damp,  straight, 
carefully  ringletted  hair,  were  a  nicely  mannered  little 
pair,  and  the  boy  fat  and  sweet  and  heavy. 

"Georgie  is  absolutely  satisfied,"  Susan  said  wist- 
fully. "Do  you  think  we  will  ever  reach  our  ideals, 
Aunt  Jo,  as  she  has  hers?" 

It  was  a  summer  Saturday,  only  a  month  or  two  after 
the  birth  of  William  Junior.  Susan  had  not  been  to 
Sausalito  for  a  long  time,  and  Mrs.  Carroll  was  end- 
ing a  day's  shopping  with  a  call  on  mother  and  babies. 
Martin,  drowsy  and  contented,  was  in  her  arms. 
Susan,  luxuriating  in  an  hour's  idleness  and  gossip,  sat 
near  the  open  window,  with  the  tiny  Billy.  Outside,  a 
gusty  August  wind  was  sweeping  chaff  and  papers  be- 
fore it;  passers-by  dodged  it  as  if  it  were  sleet. 

"I  think  there's  no  question  about  it,  Sue,"  Mrs. 
Carroll's  motherly  voice  said,  cheerfully.  "This  is  a 
hard  time;  you  and  Billy  are  both  doing  too  much, — 
but  this  won't  last!  You'll  come  out  of  it  some  day, 
dear,  a  splendid  big  experienced  woman,  ready  for  any 
big  work.  And  then  you'll  look  back,  and  think  that 
the  days  when  the  boys  needed  you  every  hour  were 
short  enough.  Character  is  the  one  thing  that  you  have 
to  buy  this  way,  Sue, — by  effort  and  hardship  and  self- 
denial!" 

"But  after  all,"  Susan  said  somberly,  so  eager  to 
ease  her  full  heart  that  she  must  keep  her  voice  low 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  509 

to  keep  it  steady,  "after  all,  Aunt  Jo,  aren't  there  lots 
of  women  who  do  this  sort  of  thing  year  in  and  year 
out  and  don't  achieve  anything?  As  a  means  to  an 
end,"  said  Susan,  groping  for  words,  "as  a  road — this 
is  comprehensible,  but — but  one  hates  to  think  of  it  as 
a  goal!" 

"Hundreds  of  women  reach  their  highest  ambitions, 
Sue,"  the  other  woman  answered  thoughtfully,  "with- 
out necessarily  reaching  yours.  It  depends  upon  which 
star  you've  selected  for  your  wagon,  Sue!  You  have 
just  been  telling  me  that  the  Lords,  for  instance,  are 
happier  than  crowned  kings,  in  their  little  garden,  with 
a  state  position  assured  for  Lydia.  Then  there's 
Georgie ;  Georgie  is  one  of  the  happiest  women  I  ever 
saw!  And  when  you  remember  that  the  first  thirty 
years  of  her  life  were  practically  wasted,  it  makes 
you  feel  very  hopeful  of  anyone's  life!" 

"Yes,  but  I  couldn't  be  happy  as  Mary  and  Lydia 
are,  and  Georgie's  life  would  drive  me  to  strong 
drink!"  Susan  said,  with  a  flash  of  her  old  fire. 

"Exactly.  So  your  fulfilment  will  come  in  some  other 
way, — some  way  that  they  would  probably  think  ex- 
tremely terrifying  or  unconventional  or  strange. 
Meanwhile  you  are  learning  something  every  day, 
about  women  who  have  tiny  babies  to  care  for,  about 
housekeeping  as  half  the  women  of  the  world  have  to 
regard  it.  All  that  is  extremely  useful,  if  you  ever 
want  to  do  anything  that  touches  women.  About  office 
work  you  know,  about  life  downtown.  Some  day  just 
the  use  for  all  this  will  come  to  you,  and  then  I'll  feel 
that  I  was  quite  right  when  I  expected  great  things  of 
my  Sue!" 

"Of  me?"  stammered  Susan.  A  lovely  color  crept 
into  her  thin  cheeks  and  a  tear  splashed  down  upon  the 
cheek  of  the  sleeping  baby. 

Anna's  dearest  dream  was  suddenly  realized  that 
summer,  and  Anna,  lovelier  than  ever,  came  out  to 
tell  Sue  of  the  chance  meeting  with  Doctor  Hoffmann 


510  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

in  the  laboratory  that  had,  in  two  short  minutes,  turned 
the  entire  current  of  her  life.  It  was  all  wonderful 
and  delightful  beyond  words,  not  a  tiny  cloud  dark- 
ened the  sky. 

Conrad  Hoffmann  was  forty-five  years  old,  seventeen 
years  older  than  his  promised  wife,  but  splendidly  tall; 
and  strong,  and — Anna  and  Susan  agreed — strikingly 
handsome.  He  was  at  the  very  top  of  his  profession, 
managed  his  own  small  surgical  hospital,  and  main- 
tained one  of  the  prettiest  homes  in  the  city.  A  musi- 
cian, a  humanitarian,  rich  in  his  own  right,  he  was  so 
conspicuous  a  figure  among  the  unmarried  men  of  San 
Francisco  that  Anna's  marriage  created  no  small  stir, 
and  the  six  weeks  of  her  engagement  were  packed  with 
affairs  in  her  honor. 

Susan's  little  sons  were  presently  taken  to  Sausalito 
to  be  present  at  Aunt  Anna's  wedding.  Susan  was 
nervous  and  tired  before  she  had  finished  her  own 
dressing,  wrapped  and  fed  the  beribboned  baby,  and 
slipped  the  wriggling  Martin  into  his  best  white  clothes. 
But  she  forgot  everything  but  pride  and  pleasure  when 
Betsey,  the  bride  and  "Grandma"  fell  with  shrieks  of 
rapture  upon  the  children,  and  during  the  whole  happy 
day  she  found  herself  over  and  over  again  at  Billy's 
side,  listening  to  him,  watching  him,  and  his  effect  on 
other  people,  slipping  her  hand  into  his.  It  was  as  if, 
after  quiet  months  of  taking  him  for  granted,  she  had 
suddenly  seen  her  big,  clever,  gentle  husband  as  a 
stranger  again,  and  fallen  again  in  love  with  him. 

Susan  felt  strangely  older  than  Anna  to-day;  she 
thought  of  that  other  day  when  she  and  Billy  had  gone 
up  to  the  big  woods;  she  remembered  the  odor  of  roses 
and  acacia,  the  fragrance  of  her  gown,  the  stiffness  of 
her  rose-crowned  hat. 

Anna  and  Conrad  were  going  away  to  Germany  for 
six  months,  and  Susan  and  the  babies  spent  a  happy 
week  in  Anna's  old  room.  Betsey  was  filling  what  had 
been  Susan's  position  on  the  "Democrat"  now,  and 
cherished  literary  ambitions. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  511 

"Oh,  why  must  you  go,  Sue?"  Mrs.  Carroll  asked, 
•wistfully,  when  the  time  for  packing  came.  "Couldn't 
you  stay  on  awhile,  it's  so  lovely  to  have  you  here !" 

But  Susan  was  firm.  She  had  had  her  holiday;  Billy 
could  not  divide  his  time  between  Sausalito  and  the 
"Protest"  office  any  longer.  They  crossed  the  bay  in 
mid-afternoon,  and  the  radiant  husband  and  father  met 
them  at  the  ferry.  Susan  sighed  in  supreme  relief  as 
he  lifted  the  older  boy  to  his  shoulder,  and  picked  up 
the  heavy  suitcase. 

"We  could  send  that?"  submitted  Susan,  but  Billy 
answered  by  signaling  a  carriage,  and  placing  his  little 
family  inside. 

"Oh,  Bill,  you  plutocrat!"  Susan  said,  sinking  back 
with  a  great  sigh  of  pleasure. 

"Well,  my  wife  doesn't  come  home  every  day!"  Billy 
said  beaming. 

Susan  felt,  in  some  subtle  climatic  change,  that  the 
heat  of  the  summer  was  over.  Mission  Street  slept 
under  a  soft  autumn  haze ;  the  hint  of  a  cool  night  was 
already  in  the  air. 

In  the  dining-room,  as  she  entered  with  her  baby 
in  her  arms,  she  saw  that  a  new  table  and  new  chairs 
replaced  the  old  ones,  a  ruffled  little  cotton  house-gown 
was  folded  neatly  on  the  table.  A  new,  hooded  baby- 
carriage  awaited  little  Billy. 

"Oh,  Billy!"  The  baby  was  bundled  unceremoni- 
ously into  his  new  coach,  and  Susan  put  her  arms  about 
her  husband's  neck.  "You  oughtn't!"  she  protested. 

"Clem  and  Mrs.  Cudahy  sent  the  carriage,"  Billy 
beamed. 

"And  you  did  the  rest !  Bill,  dear — when  I  am  such 
a  tired,  cross  apology  for  a  wife !"  Susan  found  noth- 
ing in  life  so  bracing  as  the  arm  that  was  now  tight 
about  her.  She  had  a  full  minute's  respite  before  the 
boys'  claims  must  be  met. 

"What  first,  Sue?"  asked  Billy.  "Dinner's  all  or- 
dered, and  the  things  are  here,  but  I  guess  you'll  have 
to  fix  things " 


512  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"I'll  feed  baby  while  you  give  Mart  his  milk  and 
toast,"  Susan  said  capably,  "then  I'll  get  into  some- 
thing comfortable  and  we'll  put  them  off,  and  you  can 
set  the  table  while  I  get  dinner!  It's  been  a  heavenly 
week,  Billy  dear,"  said  Susan,  settling  herself  in  a  low 
rocker,  "but  it  does  seem  good  to  get  home!" 

The  next  spring  all  four  did  indeed  go  up  to  the 
woods,  but  it  was  after  a  severe  attack  of  typhoid 
fever  on  Billy  Senior's  part,  and  Susan  was  almost  too 
much  exhausted  in  every  way  to  trust  herself  to  the 
rough  life  of  the  cabin.  But  they  came  back  after  a 
month's  gypsying  so  brown  and  strong  and  happy  that 
even  Susan  had  forgotten  the  horrors  of  the  winter,  and 
in  mid-summer  the  "Protest"  moved  into  more  digni- 
fied quarters,  and  the  Olivers  found  the  comfortable 
old  house  in  Oakland  that  was  to  be  a  home  for  them 
all  for  a  long  time. 

Oakland  was  chosen  because  it  is  near  the  city,  yet 
country-like  enough  to  be  ideal  for  children.  The 
house  was  commonplace,  shabby  and  cheaply  built,  but 
to  Susan  it  seemed  delightfully  roomy  and  comfortable, 
and  she  gloried  in  the  big  yards,  the  fruit  trees,  and 
the  old-fashioned  garden.  She  cared  for  her  sweet-pea 
vines  and  her  chickens  while  the  little  boys  tumbled 
about  her,  or  connived  against  the  safety  of  the  cat, 
and  she  liked  her  neighbors,  simple  women  who  ad- 
vised her  about  her  plants,  and  brought  their  own 
babies  over  to  play  with  Mart  and  Billy. 

Certain  old  interests  Susan  found  that  she  must  sac- 
rifice for  a  time  at  least.  Even  with  the  reliable,  capa- 
ble, obstinate  personage  affectionately  known  as  "Big 
Mary"  in  the  kitchen,  they  could  not  leave  the  children 
for  more  than  a  few  hours  at  a  time.  Susan  had  to 
let  some  of  the  old  friends  go;  she  had  neither  the 
gowns  nor  the  time  for  afternoon  calls,  nor  had  she 
the  knowledge  of  small  current  events  that  is  more 
important  than  either.  She  and  Billy  could  not  often 
dine  in  town  and  go  to  the  theater,  for  running  ex- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  513 

penses  were  heavy,  the  "Protest"  still  a  constant  prob- 
lem, and  Big  Mary  did  not  lend  herself  readily  to  sud- 
den changes  and  interruptions. 

Entertaining,  in  any  formal  sense,  was  also  out  of 
the  question,  for  to  be  done  well  it  must  be  done  con- 
stantly and  easily,  and  the  Oliver  larder  and  linen  closet 
did  not  lend  itself  to  impromptu  suppers  and  long  din- 
ners. Susan  was  too  concerned  in  the  manufacture  of 
nourishing  puddings  and  soups,  too  anxious  to  have 
thirty  little  brown  stockings  and  twenty  little  blue  suits 
hanging  on  the  line  every  Monday  morning  to  jeop- 
ardize the  even  running  of  her  domestic  machinery 
with  very  much  hospitality.  She  loved  to  have  any  or 
all  of  the  Carrolls  with  her,  welcomed  Billy's  business 
associates  warmly,  and  three  times  a  year  had  Georgie 
and  her  family  come  to  a  one  o'clock  Sunday  dinner, 
and  planned  for  the  comfort  of  the  O'Connors,  little 
and  big,  with  the  greatest  pleasure  and  care.  But  this 
was  almost  the  extent  of  her  entertaining  in.  these  days. 

Isabel  Furlong  had  indeed  tried  to  bridge  the  gulf 
that  lay  between  their  manners  of  living,  with  a  warm 
and  sweet  insistence  that  had  conquered  even  the  home- 
loving  Billy.  Isabel  had  silenced  all  of  Susan's  objec- 
tions— Susan  must  bring  the  boys;  they  would  have 
dinner  with  Isabel's  own  boy,  Alan,  then  the  children 
could  all  go  to  sleep  in  the  Furlong  nursery,  and  the 
mothers  have  a  chat  and  a  cup  of  tea  before  it  was 
time  to  dress  for  dinner.  Isabel's  car  should  come  all 
the  way  to  Oakland  for  them,  and  take  them  all  home 
again  the  next  day. 

"But,  angel  dear,  I  haven't  a  gown!"  protested 
Susan. 

"Oh,  Sue,  just  ourselves  and  Daddy  and  John's 
mother!" 

"I  could  freshen  up  my  black "  mused  Susan. 

"Of  course  you  could!"  triumphed  Isabel.  And  her 
enthusiasm  carried  the  day.  The  Olivers  went  to  dine 
and  spend  the  night  with  the  Furlongs,  and  were  after- 
ward sorry. 


514  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

In  the  first  place,  it  was  expensive.  Susan  indeed 
"freshened  up"  the  black  gown,  but  slippers  and  gloves, 
a  belt  and  a  silk  petticoat  were  new  for  the  occasion. 
The  boys'  wardrobes,  too,  were  supplemented  with  va- 
rious touches  that  raised  them  nearer  the  level  of  young 
Alan's  clothes;  Billy's  dress  suit  was  pressed,  and  at 
the  last  moment  there  seemed  nothing  to  be  done  but 
buy  a  new  suitcase — his  old  one  was  quite  too  shabby. 

The  children  behaved  well,  but  Susan  was  too  nerv- 
ous about  their  behavior  to  appreciate  that  until  the 
visit  was  long  over,  and  the  exquisite  ease  and  order 
of  Isabel's  home  made  her  feel  hopelessly  clumsy, 
shabby  and  strange.  Her  mood  communicated  itself 
somewhat  to  Billy,  but  Billy  forgot  all  lesser  emotions 
in  the  heat  of  a  discussion  into  which  he  entered  with 
Isabel's  father  during  dinner.  The  old  man  was  inter- 
ested, tolerant,  amused.  Susan  thought  Billy  nothing 
short  of  rude,  although  the  meal  finished  harmoniously 
enough,  and  the  men  made  an  engagement  the  next 
morning  to  see  each  other  again,  and  thresh  out  the  sub- 
ject thoroughly. 

Isabel  kept  Susan  until  afternoon,  and  strolled  with 
her  across  the  road  to  show  her  the  pretty  house  that 
had  been  the  Wallaces'  home,  in  her  mother's  lifetime, 
empty  now,  and  ready  to  lease. 

Susan  had  forgotten  what  a  charming  house  it  really 
was,  bowered  in  gardens,  flooded  with  sunshine,  old- 
fashioned,  elegant,  comfortable  and  spacious.  The 
upper  windows  gave  on  the  tree-hidden  roofs  of  San 
Rafael's  nicest  quarter,  the  hotel,  the  tennis-courts  were 
but  a  few  minutes'  walk  away. 

"Oh,  if  only  you  dear  people  could  live  here,  what 
bliss  we'd  have!"  sighed  Isabel. 

"Isabel — it's  out  of  the  question!  But  what's  the 
rent  e ^ 

"Eighteen  hundred "  submitted  Isabel  dubiously. 

"What  do  you  pay?" 

"We're  buying,  you  know.  We  pay  six  per  cent,  on 
a  small  mortgage." 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  515 

"Still,  you  could  rent  that  house?"  Isabel  suggested, 
brightening. 

"Well,  that's  so!"  Susan  let  her  fancy  play  with  it. 
She  saw  Mart  and  Billy  playing  here,  in  this  sheltered 
garden,  peeping  through  the  handsome  iron  fence  at 
horsemen  and  motor-cars  passing  by.  She  saw  them 
growing  up  among  such  princely  children  as  little  Alan, 
saw  herself  the  admired  center  of  a  group  of  women 
sensible  enough  to  realize  that  young  Mrs.  Oliver  was 
of  no  common  clay. 

Then  she  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  She  went 
home  depressed  and  silent,  vexed  at  herself  because 
the  question  of  tipping  or  not  tipping  Isabel's  chauffeur 
spoiled  the  last  half  of  the  trip,  and  absent-minded  over 
Billy's  account  of  the  day,  and  the  boys'  prayers. 

Other  undertakings,  however,  terminated  more  hap- 
pily. Susan  went  with  Billy  to  various  meetings,  some- 
how found  herself  in  charge  of  a  girls'  dramatic  club, 
and  meeting  in  a  bare  hall  with  a  score  or  two  of  little 
laundry-workers,  waitresses  and  factory  girls  on  every 
Tuesday  evening.  Sometimes  it  was  hard  to  leave  the 
home  lamp-light,  and  come  out  into  the  cold  on  Tues- 
day evenings,  but  Susan  was  always  glad  she  had  made 
the  effort  when  she  reached  the  hall  and  when  her 
own  particular  friends  among  the  "Swastika  Hyacinth 
Club"  girls  came  to  meet  her. 

She  had  so  recently  been  a  working  girl  herself  that 
it  was  easy  to  settle  down  among  them,  easy  to  ask 
the  questions  that  brought  their  confidence,  easy  to 
discuss  ways  and  means  from  their  standpoint.  Susan 
became  very  popular;  the  girls  laughed  with  her,  copied 
her,  confided  in  her.  At  the  monthly  dances  they 
introduced  her  to  their  "friends,"  and  their  "friends" 
were  always  rendered  red  and  incoherent  with  emotion 
upon  learning  that  Mrs.  Oliver  was  the  wife  of  Mr. 
Oliver  of  the  "Protest." 

Sometimes  Susan  took  the  children  to  see  Virginia, 
who  had  long  ago  left  Mary  Lou's  home  to  accept  a 


516  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

small  position  in  the  great  institution  for  the  blind. 
Virginia,  with  her  little  class  to  teach,  and  her  respon- 
sibilities when  the  children  were  in  the  refectory  and 
dormitory,  was  a  changed  creature,  busy,  important, 
absorbed.  She  showed  the  toddling  Olivers  the  play- 
room and  conservatory,  and  sent  them  home  with  their 
fat  hands  full  of  flowers. 

"Bless  their  little  hearts,  they  don't  know  how  for- 
tunate they  are!"  said  Virginia,  saying  good-bye  to 
Mart  and  Billy.  "But  /  know !"  And  she  sent  a  pitiful 
glance  back  toward  her  little  charges. 

After  such  a  visit,  Susan  went  home  with  a  heart 
too  full  of  gratitude  for  words.  "God  has  given  us 
everything  in  the  world!"  she  would  say  to  Billy,  look- 
ing across  the  hearth  at  him,  in  the  silent  happy  eve* 
ning. 

Walking  with  the  children,  in  the  long  spring  after- 
noons, Susan  liked  to  go  in  for  a  moment  to  see  Lydia 
Lord  in  the  library.  Lydia  would  glance  up  from  the 
book  she  was  stamping,  and  at  the  sight  of  Susan  and 
the  children,  her  whole  plain  face  would  brighten.  She 
always  came  out  from  behind  her  little  gates  and  fences 
to  talk  in  whispers  to  Susan,  always  had  some  little 
card  or  puzzle  or  fan  or  box  for  Mart  and  Billy. 

"And  Mary's  well!" 

"Well !  You  never  saw  anything  like  it.  Yes- 
terday she  was  out  in  the  garden  from  eight  o'clock 
until  ten  at  night!  And  she's  never  alone,  everyone 

in  the  neighborhood  loves  her !"  Miss  Lord 

would  accompany  them  to  the  door  when  they  went, 
wave  to  the  boys  through  the  glass  panels,  and  go  back 
to  her  desk  still  beaming. 

Happiest  of  all  the  times  away  from  home  were 
those  Susan  spent  with  the  Carrolls,  or  with  Anna  in 
the  Hoffmanns'  beautiful  city  home.  Anna  did  not 
often  come  to  Oakland,  she  was  never  for  more  than  a 
few  hours  out  of  her  husband's  sight,  but  she  loved  to 
have  Susan  and  the  boys  with  her.  The  Doctor  wanted 
a  glimpse  of  her  between  his  operations  and  his  lee- 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  517 

tures,  would  not  eat  his  belated  lunch  unless  his  lovely 
wife  sat  opposite  him,  and  planned  a  hundred  delights 
for  each  of  their  little  holidays.  Anna  lived  only  for 
him,  her  color  changed  at  his  voice,  her  only  freedom, 
in  the  hours  when  Conrad  positively  must  be  separated 
from  her,  was  spent  in  doing  the  things  that  pleased 
him,  visiting  his  wards,  practicing  the  music  he  loved, 
making  herself  beautiful  in  some  gown  that  he  had 
selected  for  her. 

"It's  idolatry,  mon  Guillaume,"  said  Mrs.  Oliver, 
briskly,  when  she  was  discussing  the  case  of  the  Hoff- 
manns with  her  lord.  "Now,  I'm  crazy  enough  about 
you,  as  you  well  know,"  continued  Susan,  "but,  at  the 
same  time,  I  don't  turn  pale,  start  up,  and  whisper, 
'Oh,  it's  Willie!'  when  you  happen  to  come  home  half 
an  hour  earlier  than  usual.  I  don't  stammer  with  ex- 
citement when  I  meet  you  downtown,  and  I  don't  cry 
when  you — well,  yes,  I  do !  I  feel  pretty  badly  when 
you  have  to  be  away  overnight!"  confessed  Susan, 
rather  tamely. 

"Wait  until  little  Con  comes !"  Billy  predicted  com- 
fortably. "Then  they'll  be  less  strong  on  the  balcony 
scene!" 

"They  think  they  want  one,"  said  Susan  wisely,  "but 
I  don't  believe  they  really  do !" 

On  the  fifth  anniversary  of  her  wedding  day  Susan's 
daughter  was  born,  and  the  whole  household  welcomed 
the  tiny  Josephine,  whose  sudden  arrival  took  all  their 
hearts  by  storm. 

"Take  your  slangy,  freckled,  roller-skating,  rifle- 
shooting  boys  and  be  off  with  you!"  said  Susan,  over 
the  hour-old  baby,  to  Billy,  who  had  come  flying  home 
in  mid-morning.  "Now  I  feel  like  David  Copper- 
field's  landlady,  'at  last  1  have  summat  I  can  love!' 
Oh,  the  mistakes  that  you  won't  make,  Jo !"  she  apos- 
trophized the  baby.  "The  smart,  capable,  self-sufficient 
way  that  you'll  manage  everything!" 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to  take  the  boys  away  for 


518  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

a  few  days?"  asked  Billy,  who  was  kneeling  down  for 
a  better  view  of  mother  and  child. 

Susan's  eyes  widened  with  instant  alarm. 

"Why  should  you?"  she  asked,  cool  fingers  tighten- 
ing on  his. 

"I  thought  you  had  no  further  use  for  the  sex,"  an- 
swered Billy  meekly. 

"Oh ?"  Susan  dimpled.  "Oh,  she's  too  little  to 

really  absorb  me  yet,"  she  said.  "I'll  continue  a  sort 
of  superficial  interest  in  the  boys  until  she's  eighteen 
or  so!" 

Sometimes  echoes  of  the  old  life  came  to  her,  and 
Susan,  pondering  them  for  an  hour  or  two,  let  them 
drift  away  from  her  again.  Billy  showed  her  the  head- 
lines one  day  that  told  of  Peter  Coleman's  narrow 
escape  from  death,  in  his  falling  airship,  and  later  she 
learned  that  he  was  well  again  and  had  given  up  aero- 
nautics, and  was  going  around  the  world  to  add  to  his 
matchless  collection  of  semi-precious  stones.  Susan  was 
sobered  one  day  to  hear  of  Emily  Saunders'  sudden 
death.  She  sat  for  a  long  time  wondering  over  the 
empty  and  wasted  life.  Mrs.  Kenneth  Saunders,  with  a 
smartly  clad  little  girl,  was  caught  by  press  cameras  at 
many  fashionable  European  watering-places;  Kenneth 
spent  much  of  his  time  in  institutions  and  sanitariums, 
Susan  heard.  She  heard  that  he  worshipped  his  little 
girl. 

And  one  evening  a  London  paper,  at  which  she  was 
carelessly  glancing  in  a  library,  while  Billy  hunted 
through  files  nearby  for  some  lost  reference,  shocked 
her  suddenly  with  the  sight  of  Stephen  Bocqueraz's 
name.  Susan  had  a  sensation  of  shame  and  terror;  she 
shut  the  paper  quickly. 

She  looked  about  her.  Two  or  three  young  men, 
hard-working  young  men  to  judge  from  appearance, 
were  sitting  with  her  at  the  long,  magazine-strewn 
table.  Gas-lights  flared  high  above  them,  soft  footfalls 
came  and  went  in  the  warm,  big  room.  At  the  desk 
the  librarian  was  whispering  with  two  nervous-looking 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  519 

young  women.  At  one  of  the  file-racks,  Billy  stood 
slowly  turning  page  after  page  of  a  heap  of  papers. 
Susan  looked  at  him,  trying  to  see  the  kind,  keen  face 
from  an  outsider's  viewpoint,  but  she  had  to  give  up  the 
attempt.  Every  little  line  was  familiar  now,  every  lit- 
tle expression.  William  looked  up  and  caught  her 
smile  and  his  lips  noiselessly  formed,  "I  love  you!" 

"Me?"  said  Susan,  also  without  a  voice,  and  with 
her  hand  on  her  heart. 

And  when  he  said  "Fool!"  and  returned  grinning 
to  his  paper,  she  opened  her  London  sheet  and  turned 
to  the  paragraph  she  had  seen. 

Not  sensational.  Mr.  Stephen  Bocqueraz,  the  well- 
known  American  writer,  and  Mrs.  Bocqueraz,  said  the 
paragraph,  had  taken  the  house  of  Mrs.  Bromley  Rose- 
Rogers  for  the  season,  and  were  being  extensively  en- 
tertained. Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bocqueraz  would  thus  be 
near  their  daughter,  Miss  Julia  Bocqueraz,  whose  mar- 
riage to  Mr.  Guy  Harold  Wetmore,  second  son  of 
Lord  Westcastle,  would  take  place  on  Tuesday  next. 

Susan  told  Billy  about  it  late  that  night,  more  be- 
cause not  telling  him  gave  the  thing  the  importance 
inseparable  from  the  fact  withheld  than  because  she 
felt  any  especial  pang  at  the  opening  of  the  old  wound. 

They  had  sauntered  out  of  the  library,  well  before 
closing  time,  Billy  delighted  to  have  found  his  refer- 
ence, Susan  glad  to  get  out  into  the  cool  summer  night. 

"Oysters?"  asked  William.    Susan  hesitated. 

"This  doesn't  come  out  of  my  expenses,"  she  stipu- 
lated. "I'm  hard-up  this  week!" 

"Oh,  no — no !  This  is  up  to  me,"  Billy  said.  So 
they  went  in  to  watch  the  oyster-man  fry  them  two 
hot  little  panfuls,  and  sat  over  the  coarse  little  table- 
cloth for  a  long  half-hour,  contentedly  eating  and  talk- 
ing. Fortified,  they  walked  home,  Susan  so  eager  to 
interrogate  Big  Mary  about  the  children  that  she 
reached  the  orderly  kitchen  quite  breathless. 

Not  a  sound  out  of  any  of  them  was  Big  Mary's 
satisfactory  report.  Still  their  mother  ran  upstairs. 


520  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

Children  had  been  known  to  die  while  parents  and 
guardians  supposed  them  to  be  asleep. 

However  the  young  Olivers  were  slumbering  safely, 
and  were  wide-awake  in  a  flash,  the  boys  clamoring  for 
drinks,  from  the  next  room,  Josephine  wide-eyed  and 
dewy,  through  the  bars  of  her  crib.  Susan  sat  down 
with  the  baby,  while  Billy  opened  windows,  wound 
the  alarm  clock,  and  quieted  his  sons. 

A  full  half-hour  passed  before  everything  was  quiet. 
Susan  found  herself  lying  wakeful  in  the  dark.  Pres- 
ently she  said: 

"Billy?" 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  roused  instantly. 

"Why,  I  saw  something  funny  in  the  London  'News' 
to-night,"  Susan  began.  She  repeated  the  paragraph. 
Billy  speculated  upon  it  interestedly. 

"Sure,  he's  probably  gone  back  to  his  wife,"  said 
Billy.  "Circumstances  influence  us  all,  you  know." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  think  he  ever  meant 
to  get  a  divorce?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  necessarily!  Especially  if  there  was 
any  reason  for  him  to  get  it.  I  think  that,  if  it  had 
been  possible,  he  would  have  gotten  it.  If  not,  he 
wouldn't  have.  Selfish,  you  know,  darned  selfish  I" 

Susan  pondered  in  silence. 

"I  was  to  blame,"  she  said  finally. 

"Oh,  no,  you  weren't,  not  as  much  as  he  was — and 
he  knew  it!"  Billy  said. 

"All  sensation  has  so  entirely  died  out  of  the  whole 
thing,"  Susan  said  presently,  "that  it's  just  like  look- 
ing at  a  place  where  you  burned  your  hand  ten  years 
ago,  and  trying  to  remember  whether  the  burn  hurt 
worst,  or  dressing  the  burn,  or  curing  the  burn!  I 
know  it  was  all  wrong,  but  at  the  time  I  thought  it  was 
only  convention  I  was  going  against — I  didn't  realize 
that  one  of  the  advantages  of  laws  is  that  you  can 
follow  them  blind,  when  you've  lost  all  your  moorings. 
You  can't  follow  your  instincts,  but  you  can  remember 
your  rule.  I've  thought  a  lot  about  Stephen  Bocqueraz. 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  521 

in  the  past  few  years,  and  I  don't  believe  he  meant 
to  do  anything  terribly  wrong  and,  as  things  turned 
out,  I  think  he  really  did  me  more  good  than  harm! 
I'm  confident  that  but  for  him  I  would  have  married 
Kenneth,  and  he  certainly  did  teach  me  a  lot  about 
poetry,  Billy,  about  art  and  music,  and  more  than  that, 
about  the  spirit  of  art  and  music  and  poetry,  the  sheer 
beauty  of  the  world.  So  I've  let  all  the  rest  go,  like 
the  fever  out  of  a  burn,  and  I  believe  I  could  meet  him 
now,  and  like  him  almost  Does  that  seem  very  strange 
to  you?  Have  you  any  feeling  of  resentment?" 

JBilly  was  silent. 

"Billy!"  Susan  said,  in  quick  uneasiness,  "are  you 
angry?" 

After  a  tense  moment  the  regular  sound  of  deep 
and  placid  breathing  answered  her.  Billy  lay  on  his 
back  sound  asleep. 

Susan  stared  at  him  a  moment  in  the  dimness.  Then 
the  absurdity  of  the  thing  struck  her,  and  she  began 
to  laugh. 

"I  wonder  if,  when  we  get  to  another  world,  every- 
thing we  do  here  will  seem  just  ridiculous  and  funny?" 
speculated  Susan. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

FOR  their  daughter's  first  Thanksgiving  Day  the 
Olivers  invited  a  dozen  friends  to  their  Oakland  nouse 
for  dinner;  the  first  really  large  gathering  of  their 
married  lives. 

"We  have  always  been  too  poor,  or  I  haven't  been 
well,  or  there's  been  some  other  good  reason  for  lying 
low,"  wrote  Mrs.  Oliver  to  Mrs.  Carroll,  "but  this 
year  the  stork  is  apparently  filling  previous  orders,  and 
our  trio  is  well,  and  we  have  been  blessed  beyond  all 
rhyme  and  reason,  and  want  to  give  thanks.  Anna 
and  Conrad  and  the  O'Connors  have  promised,  Jinny 
will  be  here,  and  I'm  only  waiting  to  hear  from  you 
three  to  write  and  ask  Phil  and  Mary  and  Pillsey  and 
the  baby.  So  do  come — for  next  year  Anna  says  that 
it's  her  turn,  and  by  the  year  after  we  may  be  so 
prosperous  that  I'll  have  to  keep  two  maids,  and  miss 
half  the  fun — it  will  certainly  break  my  heart  if  I 
ever  have  to  say,  'We'll  have  roast  turkey,  Jane,  and 
mince  pies,'  instead  of  making  them  myself.  Please 
come,  we  are  dying  to  see  the  little  cousins  together, 
they  will  be  simply  heavenly " 

"There's  more  than  wearing  your  best  dress  and 
eating  too  much  turkey  to  Thanksgiving,"  said  Susan 
to  Billy,  when  they  were  extending  the  dining-table  to 
its  largest  proportions  on  the  day  before  Thanksgiv- 
ing. "It's  just  one  of  those  things,  like  having  a  baby, 
that  you  have  to  do  to  appreciate.  It's  old-fashioned, 
and  homelike,  and  friendly.  Perhaps  I  have  a  com- 
monplace, middle-class  mind,  but  I  do  love  all  this !  I 
love  the  idea  of  everyone  arriving,  and  a  big  fire  down 
here,  and  Betts  and  her  young  man  trying  to  sneak 
away  to  the  sun-room,  and  the  boys  sitting  in  Grand- 

522 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  525 

ma's  lap,  and  being  given  tastes  of  white  meat  and 
mashed  potato  at  dinnertime.  Me  to  the  utterly  com- 
monplace, every  time!" 

"When  you  are  commonplace,  Sue,"  said  her  hus- 
band, coming  out  from  under  the  table,  where  hasps 
had  been  absorbing  his  attention,  "you'll  be  ready  for 
the  family  vault  at  Holy  Cross,  and  not  one  instant 
before!" 

"No,  but  the  consolation  is,"  Susan  feflected,  "that 
if  this  is  happiness, — if  it  makes  me  feel  like  the  Lord 
Mayor's  wife  to  have  three  children,  a  husband  whom 
most  people  think  is  either  a  saint  or  a  fool, — I  think 
he's  a  little  of  both,  myself ! — and  a  new  sun-room  built 
off  my  dining-room, — why,  then  there's  an  unexpected 
amount  of  happiness  in  this  world!  In  me — a  plain 
woman,  sir,  with  my  hands  still  odorous  of  onion  dress- 
ing, and  a  safety-pin  from  my  daughter's  bathing- 
struggle  still  sticking  into  my  twelve-and-a-half-cent 
gingham, — in  me,  I  say,  you  behold  a  contented  human 
creature,  who  confidently  hopes  to  live  to  be  ninety- 
seven  !" 

"And  then  we'll  have  eternity  together!"  said  the 
dusty  Billy,  with  an  arm  about  her. 

"And  not  a  minute  too  long!"  answered  his  sud- 
denly serious  wife. 

"You  absolutely  radiate  content,  Sue,"  Anna  said  to 
her  wistfully,  the  next  day. 

Anna  had  come  early  to  Oakland,  to  have  luncheon 
and  a  few  hours'  gossip  with  her  hostess  before  the 
family's  arrival  for  the  six  o'clock  dinner.  The  doc- 
tor's wife  reached  the  gate  in  her  own  handsome  little 
limousine,  and  Susan  had  shared  her  welcome  of  Anna 
with  enthusiasm  for  Anna's  loose  great  sealskin  coat. 

"Take  the  baby  and  let  me  try  it  on,"  said  Susan. 
"Woman — it  is  the  most  gorgeous  thing  I  ever  saw!" 

"Conrad  says  I  will  need  it  in  the  east, — we  go  after 
Christmas,"  Anna  said,  her  face  buried  against  the 
baby. 

Susan,  having  satisfied  herself  that  what  she  realrjr 


524,  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

wanted,  when  Billy's  ship  came  in,  was  a  big  sealskin 
coat,  had  taken  her  guest  upstairs,  to  share  the  scuffle 
that  preceded  the  boys'  naps,  and  hold  Josephine  while 
Susan  put  the  big  bedroom  in  order,  and  laid  out  the 
little  white  suits  for  the  afternoon. 

Now  the  two  women  were  sitting  together,  Susan 
in  a  rocker,  with  her  sleepy  little  daughter  in  the  curve 
of  her  arm,  Anna  in  a  deep  low  chair,  with  her  head 
thrown  back,  and  her  eyes  on  the  baby. 

"Radiate  happiness?"  Susan  echoed  briskly,  "My 
dear,  you  make  me  ashamed.  Why,  there  are  whole 
days  when  I  get  really  snappy  and  peevish, — truly  I 
do!  running  from  morning  until  night.  As  for  get- 
ting up  in  the  dead  of  night,  to  feed  the  baby,  Billy 
says  I  look  like  desolation — 'like  something  the  cat 
dragged  in,'  was  his  latest  pretty  compliment.  But  no," 
Susan  interrupted  herself  honestly,  "I  won't  deny  it. 
I  am  happy.  I  am  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world." 

"Yet  you  always  used  to  begin  your  castles  in  Spain 
with  a  million  dollars,"  Anna  said,  half-wistfully,  half- 
curiously.  "Everything  else  being  equal,  Sue,"  she 
pursued,  "wouldn't  you  rather  be  rich?" 

"Everything  else  never  is  equal,"  Susan  answered 
thoughtfully.  "I  used  to  think  it  was — but  it's  not! 
Now,  for  instance,  take  the  case  of  Isabel  Wallace. 
Isabel  is  rich  and  beautiful,  she  has  a  good  husband, 
—to  me  he's  rather  tame,  but  probably  she  thinks  of 
Billy  as  a  cave-man,  so  that  doesn't  count! — she  has 
everything  money  can  buy,  she  has  a  gorgeous  little 
boy,  older  than  Mart,  and  now  she  has  a  girl,  two  or 
three  months  old.  And  she  really  is  a  darling,  Nance, 
you  never  liked  her  particularly " 

"Well,  she  was  so  perfect,"  pleaded  Anna  smiling, 
"so  gravely  wise  and  considerate  and  low-voiced,  and 
light-footed 1" 

"Only  she's  honestly  and  absolutely  all  of  that!" 
Susan  defended  her  eagerly,  "there's  no  pose!  She 
really  is  unspoiled  and  good — my  dear,  if  the  other 
women  in  her  set  werp  one-tenth  as  good  as  Isabel! 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  525 

However,  to  go  back.  She  came  over  here  to  spend 
the  day  with  me,  just  before  Jo  was  born,  and  we  had 
a  wonderful  day.  Billy  and  I  were  taking  our  dinners 
at  a  boarding-house,  for  a  few  months,  and  Big  Mary 
had  nothing  else  to  do  but  look  out  for  the  boys  in 
the  afternoon.  Isabel  watched  me  giving  them  their 
baths,  and  feeding  them  their  lunches,  and  finally  she 
'  said,  Td  like  to  do  that  for  Alan,  but  I  never  do!' 
'Why  don't  you?'  I  said.  Well,  she  explained  that  in 
the  first  place  there  was  a  splendid  experienced  woman 
paid  twenty-five  dollars  a  week  to  do  it,  and  that  she 
herself  didn't  know  how  to  do  it  half  as  well.  She 
said  that  when  she  went  into  the  nursery  there  was  a 
general  smoothing  out  of  her  way  before  her,  one  maid 
handing  her  the  talcum,  another  running  with  towels, 
and  Miss  Louise,  as  they  call  her,  pleasantly  directing 
her  and  amusing  Alan.  Naturally,  she  can't  drive  them 
all  out;  she  couldn't  manage  without  them!  In  fact, 
we  came  to  the  conclusion  that  you  have  to  be  all  or- 
nothing  to  a  baby.  If  Isabel  made  up  her  mind  to 
put  Alan  to  bed  every  night  say,  she'd  have  to  cut  out 
a  separate  affair  every  day  for  it,  rush  home  from 
cards,  or  from  the  links,  or  from  the  matinee,  or  from 
tea — Jack  wouldn't  like  it,  and  she  says  she  doubts 
if  it  would  make  much  impression  on  Alan,  after  all!" 

"I'd  do  it,  just  the  same!"  said  Anna,  "and  I 
wouldn't  have  the  nurse  standing  around,  either — and 
yet,  I  suppose  that's  not  very  reasonable,"  she  went 
on,  after  a  moment's  thought,  "for  that's  Conrad's  free 
time.  We  drive  nearly  every  day,  and  half  the  time 
dine  somewhere  out  of  town.  And  his  having  to  oper- 
ate at  night  so  much  makes  him  want  to  sleep  in  the 
morning,  so  that  we  couldn't  very  well  have  a  baby 
in  the  room.  I  suppose  I'd  do  as  the  rest  do,  pay  a 
fine  nurse,  and  grab  minutes  with  the  baby  whenever 
I  could!" 

"You  have  to  be  poor  to  get  all  the  fun  out  of  chil- 
dren," Susan  said.  "They're  at  their  very  sweetest 
when  they  get  their  clothes  off,  and  run  about  before 


526  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

their  nap,  or  when  they  wake  up  and  call  you,  or 
when  you  tell  them  stories  at  night." 

"But,  Sue,  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Furlong  does  not 
have  to  work  so  hard,"  Anna  said  decidedly,  "you  must 
admit  that!  Her  life  is  full  of  ease  and  beauty  and 
power — doesn't  that  count?  Doesn't  that  give  her  a 
chance  for  self-development,  and  a  chance  to  make  her- 
self a  real  companion  to  her  husband?" 

"Well,  the  problems  of  the  world  aren't  answered 
in  books,  Nance.  It  just  doesn't  seem  interesting,  or 
worth  while  to  me !  She  could  read  books,  of  course, 
and  attend  lectures,  and  study  languages.  But — did 
you  see  the  'Protest'  last  week?" 

"No,  I  didn't!  It  comes,  and  I  put  it  aside  to 
read '] 

"Well,  it  was  a  corking  number.  Bill's  been  assert- 
ing for  months,  you  know,  that  the  trouble  isn't  any 
more  in  any  special  class,  it's  because  of  misunder- 
standing everywhere.  He  made  the  boys  wild  by  say- 
ing that  when  there  are  as  many  people  at  the  bottom 
of  the  heap  reaching  up,  as  there  are  people  at  the  top 
reaching  down,  there'll  be  no  more  trouble  between 
capital  and  labor !  And  last  week  he  had  statistics,  he 
showed  them  how  many  thousands  of  rich  people  are 
trying — in  their  entirely  unintelligent  ways! — to  reach 
down,  and — my  dear,  it  was  really  stirring!  You  know 
Himself  can  write  when  he  tries! — and  he  spoke  of 
the  things  the  laboring  class  doesn't  do,  of  the  way  it 
educates  its  children,  of  the  way  it  spends  its  money, — 
it  was  as  good  as  anything  he's  ever  done,  and  it  made 
no  end  of  talk! 

"And,"  concluded  Susan  contentedly,  "we're  at  the 
bottom  of  the  heap,  instead  of  struggling  up  in  the 
world,  we're  struggling  down!  When  I  talk  to  my 
girls'  club,  I  can  honestly  say  that  I  know  some  of  their 
trials.  I  talked  to  a  mothers'  meeting  the  other  day, 
about  simple  dressing  and  simple  clothes  for  children, 
and  they  knew  I  had  three  children  and  no  more  money 
than  they.  And  they  know  that  my  husband  began  his 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  527 

business  career  as  a  puddler,  just  as  their  sons  are  be- 
ginning now.  In  short,  since  the  laboring  class  can't, 
seemingly,  help  itself,  and  the  upper  class  can't  help  it, 
the  situation  seems  to  be  waiting  for  just  such  people 
as  we  are,  who  know  both  sides!" 

"A  pretty  heroic  life,  Susan !"  Anna  said  shaking  her 
head. 

"Heroic?  Nothing!"  Susan  answered,  in  healthy 
denial.  "I  like  it!  I've  eaten  maple  mousse  and 
guinea-hen  at  the  Saunders',  and  I've  eaten  liver-and- 
bacon  and  rice  pudding  here,  and  I  like  this  best. 
Billy's  a  hero,  if  you  like,"  she  added,  suddenly,  "Did 
I  tell  you  about  the  fracas  in  August?" 

"Not  between  you  and  Billy?"  Anna  laughed. 

"No-o-o !  We  fight,"  said  Susan  modestly,  "when 
he  thinks  Mart  ought  to  be  whipped  and  I  don't,  or 
when  little  Billums  wipes  sticky  fingers  on  his  razor 
strop,  but  he  ain't  never  struck  me,  mum,  and  that's 
more  than  some  can  say !  No,  but  this  was  really  quite 
exciting,"  Susan  resumed,  seriously.  "Let  me  see  how 
it  began — oh,  yes! — Isabel  Wallace's  father  asked 
Billy  to  dinner  at  the  Bohemian  Club, — in  August,  this 
was.  Bill  was  terribly  pleased,  old  Wallace  introduced 
him  to  a  lot  of  men,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  like 
to  be  put  up " 

"Conrad  would  put  him  up,  Sue "  Anna  said 

jealously. 

"My  dear,  wait — wait  until  you  hear  the  full  iniquity 
of  that  old  divil  of  a  Wallace !  Well,  he  ordered  cock- 
tails, and  he  'dear  boyed'  Bill,  and  they  sat  down  to 
dinner.  Then  he  began  to  taffy  the  'Protest,'  he  said 
that  the  railroad  men  were  all  talking  about  it,  and  he 
asked  Bill  what  he  valued  it  at.  Bill  said  it  wasn't  for 
sale.  I  can  imagine  just  how  graciously  he  said  it, 
too !  Well,  old  Mr.  Wallace  laughed,  and  he  said  that 
some  of  the  railroad  men  were  really  beginning  to 
enjoy  the  way  Billy  pitched  into  them ;  he  said  he  had 
started  life  pretty  humbly  himself;  he  said  that  he 
wanted  some  way  of  reaching  his  men  just  now,  and 


528  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

he  thought  that  the  'Protest'  was  the  way  to  do  it.  He 
said  that  it  was  good  as  far  as  it  went,  but  that  it 
didn't  go  far  enough.  He  proposed  to  work  its  cir- 
culation up  into  hundreds  of  thousands,  to  buy  it  at 
Billy's  figure,  and  to  pay  him  a  handsome  salary, — six 
thousand  was  hinted,  I  believe, — as  editor,  under  a 
five-year  contract!  Billy  asked  if  the  policy  of  the 
paper  was  to  be  dictated,  and  he  said,  no,  no,  every- 
thing left  to  him!  Billy  came  home  dazed,  my  dear, 
and  I  confess  I  was  dazed  too.  Mr.  Wallace  had 
said  that  he  wanted  Billy,  as  a  sort  of  side-issue,  to  live 
in  San  Rafael,  so  that  they  could  see  each  other  easily, 
— and  I  wish  you  could  see  the  house  he'd  let  us  have 
for  almost  nothing!  Then  there  would  be  a  splendid 
round  sum  for  the  paper,  thirty  or  forty  thousand  prob- 
ably, and  the  salary  I  I  saw  myself  a  lady,  Nance, 
witn  a  'rising  young  man'  for  a  husband " 

"But,  Sue — but,  Sue,"  Anna  said  eagerly,  "Billy 
would  be  editor — Billy  would  be  in  charge — there 
would  be  a  contract — nobody  could  call  that  selling  the 
paper,  or  changing  the  policy  of  the  'Protest' ' 

"Exactly  what  I  said!"  laughed  Susan.  "However, 
the  next  morning  we  rushed  over  to  the  Cudahys — 
you  remember  that  magnificent  old  person  you  and 
Conrad  met  here?  That's  Clem.  And  his  wife  is 
quite  as  wonderful  as  he  is.  And  Clem  of  course  tore 
our  little  dream  to  rags " 

"Oh,  how?"  Anna  exclaimed  regretfully. 

"Oh,  in  every  way.  He  made  it  betrayal,  and  sell- 
ing the  birthright.  Billy  saw  it  at  once.  As  Clem 
said,  where  would  Billy  be  the  minute  they  questioned 
an  article  of  his,  or  gave  him  something  for  insertion, 
or  cut  his  proof?  And  how  would  the  thing  sound — a 
railroad  magnate  owning  the  'Protest'?" 

"He  might  do  more  good  that  way  than  in  any 
other,"  mourned  Anna  rebelliously,  "and  my  goodness, 
Sue,  isn't  his  first  duty  to  you  and  the  children?" 

"Bill  said  that  selling  the  'Protest'  would  make  his 
whole  life  a  joke,"  Susan  said.  "And  now  I  see  it, 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  529 

too.  Of  course  I  wept  and  wailed,  at  the  time,  but  I 
love  greatness,  Nance,  and  I  truly  believe  Billy  is 
great!"  She  laughed  at  the  artless  admission.  "Well, 
you  think  Conrad  is  great,"  finished  Susan,  defending 
herself. 

"Yes,  sometimes  I  wish- he  wasn't — yet,"  Anna  said, 
sighing.  "I  never  cooked  a  meal  for  him,  or  had  to 
mend  his  shirts !"  she  added  with  a  rueful  laugh.  "But, 
Sue,  shall  you  be  content  to  have  Billy  slave  as  he  is 
slaving  now,"  she  presently  went  on,  "right  on  into 
middle-age?" 

"He'll  always  slave  at  something,"  Susan  said, 
cheerfully,  "but  that's  another  funny  thing  about  all 
this  fuss — the  boys  were  simply  wild  with  enthusiasm 
when  they  heard  about  old  Wallace  and  the  'Protest/ 
trust  Clem  for  that  I  And  Clem  assured  me  seriously 
that  they'd  have  him  Mayor  of  San  Francisco  yet! — 
However,"  she  laughed,  "that's  way  ahead!  But  next 
year  Billy  is  going  east  for  two  months,  to  study  the 
situation  in  different  cities,  and  if  he  makes  up  his 
mind  to  go,  a  newspaper  syndicate  has  offered  him 
enough  money,  for  six  articles  on  the  subject,  to  pay 
his  expenses!  So,  if  your  angel  mother  really  will 
come  here  and  live  with  the  babies,  and  all  goes  well, 
I'm  going,  too!" 

"Mother  would  do  anything  for  you,"  Anna  said, 
"she  loves  you  for  yourself,  and  sometimes  I  think 
that  she  loves  you  for — for  Jo,  you  know,  too !  She's 
so  proud  of  you,  Sue " 

"Well,  if  I'm  ever  anything  to  be  proud  of,  she  well 
may  be!"  smiled  Susan,  "for,  of  all  the  influences  of 
my  life — a  sentence  from  a  talk  with  her  stands  out 
clearest!  I  was  moping  in  the  kitchen  one  day,  I  for- 
get what  the  especial  grievance  was,  but  I  remember 
her  saying  that  the  best  of  life  was  service — that  any 
life's  happiness  may  be  measured  by  how  much  it 
serves!" 

Anna  considered  it,  frowning. 

"True  enough  of  her  life,  Sue!" 


530  SATURDAY'S    CHILD 

"True  of  us  all!  Georgie,  and  Alfie,  and  Virginia! 
And  Mary  Lou, — did  you  know  that  they  had  a  little 
girl?  And  Mary  Lou  just  divides  her  capacity  for 
adoration  into  two  parts,  one  for  Ferd  and  one  for 
Marie-Louise!" 

"Well,  you're  a  delicious  old  theorist,  Sue!  But 
somehow  you  believe  in  yourself,  and  you  always  do 
me  good !"  Anna  said  laughing.  "I  share  with  Mother 
the  conviction  that  you're  rather  uncommon — one 
watches  you  to  see  what's  next!" 

"Putting  this  child  in  her  crib  is  next,  now,"  said 
Susan  flushing,  a  little  embarrassed.  She  lowered  Jose- 
phine carefully  on  the  little  pillow.  "Best — girl — her 
— mudder — ever — did — hab!"  said  Susan  tenderly  as 
the  transfer  was  accomplished.  "Come  on,  Nance!" 
she  whispered,  "we'll  go  down  and  see  what  Bill  is 
doing." 

So  they  went  down,  to  add  a  score  of  last  touches 
to  the  orderly,  homelike  rooms,  to  cut  grape-fruit  and 
taste  cranberry  sauce,  to  fill  vases  with  chrysanthemums 
and  ferns,  and  count  chairs  for  the  long  table. 

"This  is  fun!"  said  Susan  to  her  husband,  as  she 
filled  little  dishes  with  nuts  and  raisins  in  the  pantry 
and  arranged  crackers  on  a  plate. 

"You  Let  your  life  it's  fun!"  agreed  Billy,  pausing 
in  the  act  of  opening  a  iar  of  olives.  "You  look  so 
pretty  in  that  dress,  Sue,"  he  went  on,  contentedly, 
"and  the  kids  are  so  good,  and  it  seems  dandy  to  be 
able  to  have  the  family  all  here!  We  didn't  see  this 
coming  when  we  married  on  less  than  a  hundred  a 
month,  did  we?" 

He  put  his  arm  about  her,  they  stood  looking  out 
of  the  window  together. 

"We  did  not!  And  when  you  were  ill,  Billy — and 
sitting  up  nights  with  Mart's  croup!"  Susan  smiled 
reminiscently. 

"And  the  Thanksgiving  Day  the  milk-bill  came  in 
for  five  months — when  we  thought  we'd  been  pay- 
ing it!" 


SATURDAY'S    CHILD  531 

"We've  been  through  some  times,  Bill !  But  isn't  it 
wonderful  to — to  do  it  all  together — to  be  married?" 

"You  bet  your  life  it's  wonderful,"  agreed  the  un- 
poetic  William. 

"It's  the  loveliest  thing  in  the  world,"  his  wife  said 
dreamily.  She  tightened  his  arm  about  her  and  spoke 
half  aloud,  as  if  to  herself.  "It  is  the  Great  Adven- 
ture!" said  Susan. 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

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LADDIE.  ~ 

Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  the 
scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The  story  is  told 
by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of 
a  large  family,  but  it  is  concerned  not  so 
much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family. 
Chief  among  them  is  that  of  Laddie,  the 
older  brother  whom  Little  Sister  adores, 
and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has 
come  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  and  about 
whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery. 
There  is  a  wedding  midway  in  the  book 
and  a  double  wedding  at  the  close. 
THE  HARVESTER.  Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"The  Harvester,"  David  Langston,  is  a  man  of  the  woods  and 
fields,  who  draws  his  living  from  the  prodigal  hand  of  Mother 
Nature  herself.  If  the  book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figure 
of  this  man  it  would  be  notable.  But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his 
"Medicine  Woods,"  and  the  Harvester's  whole  being  realizes  that 
this  is  the  highest  point  of  life  which  has  come  to  him — there  begins 
a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 
FRECKLES,  Decorations  by  E.  Stetson  Crawford. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  In 
•which  he  takes  hold  of  life;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality;  and  his 
love-story  with  "The  Angel"  are  full  of  real  sentiment. 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST. 
Illustrated  by  Wladyslaw  T.  Brenda. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods;  a  buoyant,  lovab/e 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by  the 
sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  from 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 
Illustrations  in  colors  by  Oliver  Kemp. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  in  Central  Indiana. 
The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
love.  The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,     PUBLISHERS,      NEW  YORK 


MYRTLE  REED'S  NOVELS 

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LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE. 

A  charming  story  of  a  quaint  corner  of 
New  England  where  bygone  romance  finds  a 
modern  parallel.  The  story  centers  round 
the  coming  of  love  to  the  young  people  on 
the  staff  of  a  newspaper — and  it  is  one  of  the 
prettiest,  sweetest  and  quaintest  of  old  fash, 
ioned  love  stories,  *  *  »  a  rare  book,  ex- 
quisite in  spirit  and  conception,  full  o! 
delicate  fancy,  of  tenderness,  of  delightful 
humor  and  spontaniety. 

A  SPINNER  IN  THE  SUN. 

Miss  Myrtle  Reed  may  always  be  depended  upon  to  write  a  story 
in  which  poetry,  charm,  tenderness  and  humor  are  combined  into  a 
clever  and  entertaining  book.  Her  characters  are  delightful  and  she 
always  displays  a  quaint  humor  of  expression  and  a  quiet  feeling  oi 
pathos  which  give  a  touch  of  active  realism  to  all  her  writings.  In 
"A  Spinner  in  the  Sun"  she  tells  an  old-fashioned  love  story,  of  a 
veiled  lady  who  lives  in  solitude  and  whose  features  her  neighbors 
have  never  seen.  There  is  a  mystery  at  the  heart  of  the  book  that 
throws  over  it  the  glamour  of  romance. 

THE   MASTER'S    VIOLIN, 

A  love  story  in  a  musical  atmosphere.  A  picturesque,  old  Ger- 
man virtuoso  is  the  reverent  possessor  of  a  genuine  "Cremona."  He 
consents  to  take  for  his  pupil  a  handsome  youth  who  proves  to  have 
an  aptitude  for  technique,  but  not  the  soul  of  an  artist.  The  youth 
has  led  the  happy,  careless  life  of  a  modern,  well-to-do  young  Amer- 
ican and  he  cannot,  with  his  meagre  past,  express  the  love,  the  passion 
and  the  tragedies  of  life  and  all  its  happy  phases  as  can  the  master 
who  has  lived  life  in  all  its  fulness.  But  a  girl  comes  into  his  life — a 
beautiful  bit  of  human  driftwood  that  his  aunt  had  taken  into  her 
heart  and  home,  and  through  his  passionate  love  for  her,  he  learns 
the  lessons  that  life  has  to  give— and  his  soul  awakes. 

Founded  on  a  fact  that  all  artists  realize. 

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